


To The Edge and Over

by paperstorm, slf630



Series: To The Edge and Over [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, First Time, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2020-03-26 07:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19001548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slf630/pseuds/slf630
Summary: Here’s the thing. Dean’s mostly perfect in Sam’s eyes. He’s beautiful inside and out – cocky, charming, brave, fiercely loyal, flawed and stubborn and annoying and amazing – and Sam’s so stupidly in love with him it isn’t even close to funny. And there’s no way in hell Dean can ever know.





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, Sam didn’t mean to look. It just sorta ... happened. And once he saw it, he couldn’t not see it. He’d known there was something ... different ... about Rhonda, right from the start. Dean rarely brought his ‘dates’ around, even rarer for him to see them more than once, especially once he stopped dating high school girls. So it was a little weird, and worrisome, when Dean did see this one more than once.  
  
Dad had them in some crappy, rent-by-the-week apartment. It had only been a few weeks since the whole incident with Amy and her mom, and Sam was still more than a little shaken up by the whole thing. His first kiss and his first near-death experience all in one – not exactly a great day, all in all. And his brother acting so completely out of character really wasn't helping. There were so very few constants in Sam’s life; Dean was mostly the only thing that always stayed the same. And it upset the delicate balance of Sam's whole world when things were off between the two of them.  
  
He was in the living room, crappy headphones not doing a whole hell of a lot of good to drown out the noise. That was something else that was different, too. Dean very rarely brought his hook-ups back to wherever Sam was. He either went to the girl’s place or the Impala, not wanting Sam to have to put up with sitting in the next room while Dean got laid. Which Sam very, very much appreciated because, as much as he loved his brother, being subjected to all  _that_  was not something he had any interest in, thank you very much. He knew about sex, had known the general mechanics of it for years, but for the most part it still made him uncomfortable, so he was happy that Dean didn’t flaunt the whole thing in Sam’s face. But this chick had been here a few times now and she walked around the place like she owned it; dressed in one of Dean’s t-shirts that was way too big on her but that would occasionally flash a quick glimpse of brightly-colored panties.  
  
Today, they were pink and looked really soft, like satin. Sam’s gut churned.  
  
She walked past him, smiling happily on her way to the kitchen; Dean following closely behind in nothing but a tight pair of black boxer briefs. He shot Sam a grin and ruffled his fingers through Sam’s hair on his way by. He always did that, his fingers gravitating to Sam’s hair like magnets and Sam’s definitely not complaining, but this time it was different. It wasn’t affectionate, it was somehow patronizing. Like Dean had just got done with some very adult activity and now he was patting his kid brother on the head as if to say ‘Oh, Sammy. You’re too young to understand these things.’ And then Rhonda whispered something like “He’s so  _cute_!”, and Dean made some cocky crack about good looks running in the family, and the churning got worse.  
  
Dean and Rhonda went back into the bedroom that Sam and Dean shared – and that was another thing; it was  _their_  room, dammit! Sam could barely even be in there anymore knowing what had gone on only hours ago – after they grabbed a few drinks from the kitchen. It seemed like she was going to be hanging around a while. Sam went halfheartedly back to his homework, trying very hard to concentrate on multiplying fractions instead of what Dean and his latest hook-up may or may not be doing just a few feet away.  
  
But surprisingly enough, maybe ten minutes later, Dean was leading a finally fully-dressed Rhonda toward the door. He leaned casually against the doorframe, one shoulder pressing into the wood, his legs crossed at the ankle as he absentmindedly scratched at his bare stomach. Sam tried not to watch, he really did, but he couldn't not look for some stupid, unknown reason, as she leaned in and pressed a small, soft, surprisingly chaste kiss to Dean’s already kiss-swollen lips. Dean shot her that damn Dean Winchester smirk as she turned and walked out the door.  
  
Dean flopped down on the couch next to Sam, pulling off his headphones and grinning at him. Sam’s brain stuttered to a halt, blinking hard at his brother. Dean was acting like it was just a normal day, like he wasn’t sitting here in his freaking underwear after Sam spent the better part of an hour trying not to listen to him have sex. Dean ruffled his hair again, leaning back against the couch cushions. “What’s up, Sammy?”  
  
Sam’s mouth opened and closed a few times, no real sound coming out, still just staring at his brother. “You stink like sex,” he finally rasped, not sure why that’s what his burned-out brain chose to focus on.  
  
Dean merely smirked, smacking him on the shoulder as he heaved himself off the couch. “And just how the hell would you know what sex smells like?”  
  
Sam glared at his brother’s back the whole time as Dean made his way down the hall to the bathroom. “‘Cause you always stink like it!” he called after him, far too late to carry any real weight as a comeback, but he wasn’t positive Dean heard him anyway.  
  
And that’s how Sam finds himself where he is now; alone in their bedroom, his brother freshly showered and God knows where, staring at those damn pink panties half-shoved under Dean’s bed. And Sam was right; they are satin.  
  
That churning, unpleasant feeling returns full-force and Sam finds himself numbly stumbling the few feet to his own bed and flopping down heavily on the mattress when it seems like his legs just won’t hold him up anymore. He stares at those damn panties, mind racing with all sorts of images that he really doesn’t know what to do with.  
  
It’s been happening more and more lately, especially since the thing with Amy. Sure, Sam had liked her well enough – even though he really didn’t know her and even though she turned out to be one of the things Sam’s been raised to hunt down and kill – and she was pretty and nice and she saved his life. But when she kissed him, it just felt ... off. Granted, it was his first kiss, and Dean said once that his first kiss was so strange and foreign and awkward that he thought he might never kiss anyone ever again. But that really doesn’t explain why it just made him feel hollow inside. And when she mentioned leaving with her, just running away from both their families, he’d almost been tempted. A life away from hunting, away from moving every few weeks or months sounded awesome. But as soon as the thought entered his head, it left. There was no way in hell he could leave Dean like that. He’d never  _want_  to.  
  
With a groan, Sam falls back against his lumpy mattress, staring at the water-stained ceiling just so he doesn’t have to look at the proof of Dean’s latest conquest. Maybe it’s the fear that Rhonda will make the same offer to Dean that has Sam so turned around right now. If she asked, if Rhonda asked Dean right this minute to run away with her, away from Sam and their Dad, what would Dean say? Sam’s first instinct is that Dean would scoff and roll his eyes and say “no fucking way” and that would be the end of it, because Dean’s fiercely loyal like that. But then, on the other hand, no girl has ever stuck around for as long as this one has. So Sam really doesn’t know what to think. Maybe that’s what’s really bothering him – worrying that soon he won’t have his brother’s constant presence to calm and ground him when everything else in his life is nothing but a big, gigantic mess.  
  
But. If Sam really feels like being honest with himself, he knows that’s not it. Two simple facts screaming in the back of his mind, where he buries the things he doesn’t want to think about, are making the thought an impossibility. First, Dean loves the life. There’s no way he’d leave it, especially for just some chick. And second, that gnawing, hopeless, helpless feeling started twisting Sam’s intestines into pretzels well before Rhonda was even in the picture.  
  
He wants to blame her, wants it to be her fault that he feels this way – lost and confused and sick with it – but he knows it’s not her. Even though he doesn’t really know her, she seems like a nice enough girl. Sam just hates her on principle. Just like all the others that came before her and took Dean's attention away from him. And Sam knows that’s wrong. His brother has every right to be happy, to find companionship in a life lived on the fringe of society. But he’s selfish enough that he wants it to be  _him_  that Dean spends his time with. They used to be best friends; Dean was Sam’s everything – mother, father, brother, protector, supporter, friend, everything Sam needed all rolled into one convenient package in his big brother. But the older they get, the more distance grows between them. And Sam's at a loss over how to fix it.  
  
At fifteen, Sam is still perfectly fine with his brother being his best friend. Apparently, at nineteen-and-a-half, Dean’s too cool to hang out constantly with his dorky, too-tall too-lame too-smart little brother. And Sam misses him. He feels the loss like a severed limb, which is an expression he’s never really understood until now. And he hates it,  _hates it_ , that he used to be enough for Dean and now he suddenly isn’t.  
  
The sheer amount of jealousy that he feels whenever Dean leaves to go get himself laid, or to head to a bar to hustle some pool and not come home until the early hours of the morning stinking of cigarettes and perfume, does nothing but confuse Sam even more. He tries to blame it on not being the center of Dean’s world for the first time in his life, but it’s more than that. Sam just doesn’t really know or understand what that means. He’s worried. Like maybe the  _more_  is something bad, something that’s broken inside him after so many years lacking any scrap of normalcy.  
  
He rolls over onto his side, pretending to be asleep when he hears his brother’s key scratch in the lock, the scraping slam of the front door where the wood’s old and doesn’t fit together quite right anymore. Sam can’t help but compare his relationship with his brother to the old, groaning wood – what used to be seamless and right, now left slightly off-center and ill-fitting after years of use and mistreatment. It’s poetic irony, or something. And it’s pathetic.  
  
The faint light from the bare bulb in the hallway slants across the end of Sam’s bed for a moment when Dean pushes open their bedroom door before the room’s plunged into darkness again once he softly shuts it behind him. Sam hadn’t really realized he’d laid here as long as he did; idly wonders where his brother’s been for the hours that he’s been in here in the dark, staring into space and feeling sorry for himself. But he won’t ask, and Dean sure as shit won't tell.  
  
There’s two dull thuds when Dean takes off his boots, the soft swish of material as he takes off his leather jacket and likely his over-shirt as well. Sam’s eyes squeeze shut when he hears his brother shuffling around the room, coming to stand between their beds. Sam can feel the weight of his brother’s stare on the back of his head, knows that Dean’s trying to work out whether he’s really asleep or not; whether he’s okay after being left alone for so long. Like Sam’s some kind of needy, pitiful wuss who loses the will to live if he misses his brother too much. Which would be insulting as all hell if it weren’t also completely true.  
  
Dean heaves a soft, barely-there sigh and pulls the blanket up over Sam’s shoulders, fingers gently brushing his hair back off his forehead, touch lingering just a heartbeat too long. Sam wants more than anything to lean into the warmth of his brother’s hand, but he doesn’t. Then Sam hears the squeak of Dean’s bedsprings when his brother finally lies down. His breath evens out relatively quickly and Sam lays and listens to the soft snores; to the reassurance that for tonight, his brother’s safe and at home with him.  
  
Sam’s still staring blankly at the wall when the weak spring sun peeks through the part in the curtains where they don’t close all the way.  
   
===  
  
So, Sam’s smart enough to know that his and Dean’s relationship is codependent and unhealthy and so far to the left from normal it really isn’t even funny. But it’s never bothered him much. Dad ingrained it down to the very DNA they share that all they have is each other; that family is the Most Important Thing. They have a bond forged in blood and death and tragedy, fire in their veins and smoke in their lungs; tethered together eternally by love and devotion and brotherhood. They’re each other’s strength and weakness, so vastly different in more than just looks, the proverbial yin and yang, light to each other’s darkness. And Sam never used to have to wonder if he mattered. He was the center of Dean’s world, just as Dean was his.  
  
His big brother is strong and tall and fearless and Sam’s little-brother-hero-worship knows no bounds. Dean’s sacrificed everything for Sam, done everything in his power – sometimes beyond his power – to ensure that even though they lived the way they did, Sam never really wanted for anything. Dean would move mountains if he had to, to make sure Sam was always taken care of. Dean raised him when he was barely more than a child himself. And Sam feels like someone has cut out a part of his heart, his freaking soul, when that attention is turned on someone else.  
  
Rhonda’s there the next day when Sam gets home from school; sitting in his brother’s lap – petite enough that she curls perfectly into his brother’s arms, just like Sam used to when they were kids; when he’d seek out his big brother when he was scared or lonely – while they watch crappy daytime TV. Dean smiles at her, soft and fond and that’s  _Sam's_  smile – the smile that his brother used to only give him, eyes crinkling at the corners and dancing with glee and mischief. Sam all but runs from the room, slamming their bedroom door behind him. He needs to get this under control. For as weird as Dean’s being, Sam knows that he’s acting just as strangely himself. And Dean’s likely to notice, and he sure as hell won’t hesitate to call Sam on it. Not to mention the added strain to their already stretched-thin relationship.  
  
Curling up on his bed, knees tucked up against his chest as much as he can, arms wrapped around his stomach, Sam stares at the wall, trying to figure this whole thing out. He’s smart, no one’s ever been able to say anything to the contrary, so he should be able to sort it out. But just like every other time he’s tried, his emotions get in the way. His throat gets tight and his eyes sting with tears he point-blank refuses to let fall. All he knows, all he can focus on, is the fact that he hates the distance he can feel growing between them every day, the tension that hangs in the air; an actual physical presence like an uninvited guest.  
  
There was a time – not that long ago, in fact – that Dean would hover and was constantly in Sam’s space, never wanting to leave him alone, even at the prospect of a hunt. But now, even though Dad’s still leaving Dean at home more often than not to  _watch out for Sammy_ , Dean seems to find any excuse he can to not spend time with Sam. Sam sighs softly in frustration, curling in tighter on himself, lost in his own mind. He feels sick to his stomach, whole body flushing hot and cold at the same time and he’s suddenly so very tired. It’s times like this that he misses Dean the most, misses being a little kid that could crawl into his big brother’s lap and let him soothe the hurt, let him take it all away like only he’s ever been able to do. And like thinking about him makes him appear, their bedroom door opens, Dean’s face the only part of him visible as he peeks into the room.  
  
“Oh, hey. You’re up. Thought you might be takin’ a nap or something,” Dean mutters as he steps fully into the room. He hesitates for just a moment, rubbing over the back of his neck before he moves forward, sitting down next to Sam’s bent legs. “You okay, Sammy?” he asks softly after a moment, hand twitching a little against his own thigh like he wants to reach out and touch. Sam really wishes he would.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam damn-near whispers. “Why?”  
  
“You, uh, you seemed kinda upset when you stormed through the living room. And Rhonda was wantin’ to go do somethin’ but I didn’t wanna leave if you aren’t okay.”  
  
That confusing, frustrating spike of jealousy curls in Sam’s already queasy stomach. “I‘m fine,” he manages to grit out, still not able to look at Dean.  
  
“Did somethin’ happen at school, kiddo?” Dean asks, actually reaching out this time, fingers brushing the hair off Sam’s forehead in an attempt to see his eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”  
  
Once upon a time, that was true. But now Sam’s messed up and confused and wouldn’t have any clue where to start even if he could get up the nerve to talk to his brother. Hard to explain to someone else what’s wrong when you’re not even sure yourself.  
  
“It’s not school,” Sam eventually murmurs. And even though it nearly kills him to say it, he adds, “You should go ahead and go out with Rhonda. I’ll be alright.”  
  
Eventually. He has to be, right?  
  
He sees Dean frown out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed and his lips turned down. “You sure you don’t want me to stay here with you?”  
  
And, yes, that’s exactly what Sam wants. But he’ll never admit it. “No. It’s fine. Go.”  
  
Dean hesitates again before getting off the sagging mattress, one hand squeezing Sam’s shoulder before he silently walks back out of their room. Sam can hear the low rumble of his brother’s voice, then the front door opening and closing, and he lets his stinging eyes slide closed. But to his surprise, about twenty minutes later, he hears the front door reopen and the familiar shuffle of his brother’s steps coming down the hallway. He pushes the door open all the way this time, plastic bag of take-out in one hand. He frowns again when he sees that Sam’s in the exact same position he was in before he left. Sam sends him a matching frown, looking behind his brother, fully expecting to see Rhonda.  
  
“Dean?” he asks, confused when he sees his brother is alone.  
  
“C’mon, kiddo. Got us some dinner. We’ll eat early and watch a movie or somethin’.”  
  
And because Sam’s apparently stupid, he asks sharply, “Where’s Rhonda?”  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Took her home.” He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Thought maybe you might wanna hang out.”  
  
“I thought she wanted to go out.” Sam must be stuck on stupid tonight.  
  
Dean cringes slightly, shaking his head on a humorless laugh. “Yeah. She did. Got kinda pissed when I told her that I didn’t want to.” He sets the bag on the table between their beds, nudging Sam with his knee. “Scoot over, jerkface.”  
  
Sam ducks his head and smiles, shifting over so that his brother can plop down on the mattress next to him.  
  
“Fuck it, though. She’s gettin’ clingy anyway, man.” He looks over, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “She’s talkin’ ‘bout me meeting her parents and shit.”  
  
Sam laughs, that unsettled feeling in his belly finally starting to calm. “Thought you liked her.”  
  
Dean shrugs, pursing his lips. “She’s cool. But. I don’t know, dude. Not like it’s really gonna matter. Dad’ll be back soon and we’ll be outta here, and then I’ll never see her again anyway. ‘sides. If she’s gonna get pissy just ‘cause I wanna hang out with my little bro? What kinda shit is that?” He shifts, lying on his side to look over at Sam. “What about you? My advice a few weeks ago help with whatever girl ya wanted to talk to?” he asks around a mischievous grin, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
Sam can’t help but laugh, his brother’s playfulness a welcome change to all the angst he’s been feeling for way too long. He takes comfort in their familiar banter, lets it soothe over whatever’s been wrong with him. He doesn’t answer, though. He can’t really bring himself to tell Dean about Amy, and how much of a disaster him talking to her really turned into, party because it’s embarrassing as hell but mostly because if Dean found out she was a monster and Sam let her go, he’d tear out of here this minute and chase after her. Sam huffs a fake, disgusted sigh instead.  
  
“Dean,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.  
  
  
Dean just grins wider. “C’mon, bitch. Let’s go eat.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam responds automatically, getting up and following his brother from the room.  
   
===  
  
Despite the fact that Dad said he’d be back soon, it still ends up being another two weeks. And despite what Dean said about Rhonda, he still hung out with her every now and then; definitely less than before, but still. And after that one night of being brothers again – laughing and easy teasing and chatting about everything and nothing like things were how they used to be – everything went back to being strained between them. When Dad finally got back, for the first time in Sam’s life, he was actually happy about leaving town.  
  
Usually, Sam was left behind on hunts, left to do the research in the library while Dean and Dad went out and were the heroes. And that was perfectly fine with Sam. He wasn’t cut out to be a hunter, would never embrace the life like his brother and father. So it surprised the hell out of him when Dad said that he’d need both of them on the next one – a simple salt and burn in Santa Rosa but it was multiple spirits.  
  
They do the whole research thing – well, mostly Sam does, Dean just pretends to look through the papers while Dad interviews the latest victim’s family. But Sam’s okay with that. Maybe it makes him a dork like Dean says, but Sam really doesn’t mind research. There’s something calming, almost methodical about going through old books and town records and newspaper archives. And it’s something Sam’s  _good_  at, which is something nice to feel for a change when most of his life consists of constantly feeling inadequate when held up to scrutiny next to his stupidly perfect big brother. Soon enough, Sam has all the details they’ll need; names, dates and even the location of the bodies. So far, pretty damn easy as far as his first real hunt goes.  
  
They drive together in the Impala to the old, dilapidated house, long-since abandoned but a place where kids go to hang out – drinking and having sex if the beer bottles and used condoms are any indication. Dean elbows Sam and nods toward the condoms with a smirk on his face, and Sam just rolls his eyes and attempts to hide a blush. Yeah, still uncomfortable. And, also, gross. Apparently the kids in this town have never heard of a garbage can.  
  
The spirits were brothers, beaten and tortured then eventually killed by a group of older kids. Sam couldn’t find a reason why, the papers just said that the brothers were from the wrong side of the tracks and a bit different. There was a picture in one of the articles – two young boys, not much younger than he and Dean, smiling sadly at the camera, arms pressed together from shoulders to wrists. Sam actually felt bad for them, it wasn't really like it was their fault that they’d been the victims of bullies – hell, he could even relate. But they were killing teenagers who fit a certain profile that happened to mistakenly come into the house looking for some fun on a Friday night in a boring, one-horse town. So, Sam knows what they have to do. Doesn’t mean he has to like it, though.  
  
The house is two stories and Dad takes the upstairs while Sam and Dean split up and cover the first floor. The paper didn’t go into details – the police were never able to find the bodies – but they were believed to be somewhere in the house still. Sam’s just turning a corner, going back to look for his brother after he finished his part of the lower level, when the hair on the back of his neck prickles, his breath ghosting out of him in a fine, white mist. He has just enough time to yell out his brother’s name before he’s thrown backward, hitting the wall hard. He cries out in pain, his right arm catching most of his weight when he hits the ground at an odd angle, the delicate bones of his wrist snapping. His head bounces off the drywall then the floor, blood running thick and sticky down his forehead into his eyes.  
  
The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is his brother running toward him, screaming his name.  
   
===  
  
There’s something both reassuring and haunting about the slow, even beeping of the heart-rate monitor Sam’s hooked up to. The small, shrill noise is loud in the otherwise too-quiet room, and every beat signifies the contracting and expanding of Sam’s heart, pulsing blood through his veins, and that means he’s alive. Dean is so, so grateful every second for that. But it also reminds him over and over of where they are, and how close he came to losing Sam forever. He can’t even think about it. It hurts too much. He’ll just do something stupid and embarrassing like burst into tears or start screaming and smashing up all this expensive equipment, or something equally over-dramatic, and that wouldn’t help anyone. Besides, he can’t draw unnecessary attention. They’re Michael Stewart and his younger brother Kevin, and if anyone finds out they aren’t, they’re in more trouble than Dean knows how to handle on his own.  
  
He’s pissed off that Dad left. Not altogether surprised, but pissed nonetheless. He’s pissed at Dad for letting Sammy come along on that hunt, too. Stupid. Dad should have known better.  _Dean_  should have known better. Sam’s not cut out to be a hunter, he never has been. He trains hard enough, lets Dad teach him the hand-to-hand combat he learned in the Marines and spars with Dean and practices shooting at tin cans and knows how to kill practically every supernatural piece of shit in Dad’s journal off the top of his head, but his heart has never been in it. Dean knows that, he’s always known that, but he still let Dad convince him he needed both of them to take down the spirits. And as mad as he is at Dad, he’s even more mad at himself for listening to him.  
  
It’s his job, most of the time it’s his  _only_  job, to watch out for Sam. “Take care of Sammy, Dean.” He hears it at least a few times a week, even when Dad isn’t in the same state as Dean and Sam. Dad actually  _calls them_ , from wherever he is, to remind Dean to take care of Sam. As if Dean needs reminding. And he’s heard it that often since the day Mom burned up on the ceiling and Dad put a baby Sam into Dean’s arms and charged him eternally with Sam’s safety. Dad doesn’t even need to say it. It’s second nature, after all this time. Dean knows to take care of Sam, he knows better than he knows his own name how to protect Sam and provide for him and keep him safe and happy. It’s more than a job. It’s Dean’s reason for getting up in the morning. It’s what he’s spent his whole life doing. It’s who he is. And he fucked it up. He turned away, when they were in that house. He turned his back on Sam, only for a minute but it was long enough for the spirit to pick him up like he weighed as much as a pillow and toss him carelessly into a wall. It was long enough for Sam’s wrist to shatter and for his head to smack hard enough against the plaster that blood oozed down his forehead. It was long enough for him to be hurt so badly he passed out and Dean spent the next two hours in absolute agony, not even knowing if Sam was alive or dead.  
  
And now Sam’s lying there, looking so damn small and pathetic in the sterile hospital bed, and Dean will never, ever forgive himself if Sam doesn’t wake up.  
  
“M’so sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers, dragging the back of his hand across his nose and then tracing Sam’s fingers where they’re lying motionless against the stark white bedsheet. He isn’t crying, because he’s Dean Fuckin’ Winchester and Winchesters don’t cry, fuck you very much, but he’s about as close as he’ll let himself get, and really, he doesn’t think anyone would blame him. Even Dad.  
   
“I shouldn’t’a left you, should’a kept you safe. Supposed to be my job, right? If I can’t even do that … shit, what the hell good am I?”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer. He just beeps.  
   
===  
  
The first thing Sam sees when his gritty, too-heavy eyes flutter open are almost identical hazel-green eyes, wide and slightly terrified staring down at him. The next thing he notices is his brother’s warm, thick fingers smoothing his hair back off his forehead. The next is pain. White-hot, searing pain, like a thousand bee-stings, that makes him groan and curl into himself as much as possible, swallowing rapidly against the bile rising in his throat.  
  
“Shh,” Dean soothes softly. “Easy, Sammy. Don’t move.”  
  
Dean’s voice is rough, a little thick; off somehow, but Sam doesn’t have the strength to think too much about it over the dull throbbing in his head. Sam licks his lips, unconsciously turning into the silent comfort of his brother’s hands – those very hands that have taught him everything, picked him up when he stumbled and fell. The hands whose touch he craves a little more than he probably should.  
  
“Wha?” he croaks, his own voice odd, scratchy and sounding unused.  
  
Dean’s hand slides through his hair again, the other like a brand against the clammy skin on his neck. “They, uh, they tossed you into a wall, Sammy,” Dean starts to explain softly. “You’ve been out for about a day and a half. Broke your arm and got a nasty concussion.” He stops, licking his lips, eyes dropping to Sam’s chest. “I got to you as quick as I could ...” he trails off, sounding completely wrecked.  
  
Sam frowns as much as his pounding head will allow and he can suddenly feel the cast on his arm. Which means ...  
  
“Hospital?” Sam rasps. Dean merely nods, still resolutely not looking at Sam’s face.  
  
That really doesn’t make much sense. And it pretty much goes against one of Dad’s sacred rules: no hospitals unless one of them is near death. Sam really doesn’t think a concussion and broken arm constitute ‘near death’. Especially considering all the times he’s had to patch up his broken, bloody big brother. Which means Dean was the one who insisted on bringing Sam here, and that means Dad’s probably pretty freaking pissed right about now.  
  
“When can I get outta here?” Sam asks, throat still feeling like it’s lined in cotton and sounding like it’s been scrubbed with a steel pad.  
  
Dean’s eyes snap to his then, wide and unblinking. “What the hell, Sam?” he grits out. “You just woke up. You’ve been unconscious for a fucking day and a half! You ... I thought ...” he trails off with a huff, pulling his hands away to scrub over his face. Sam misses the warmth of his brother’s touch more than he thinks he should. “Just. Rest up. Please, Sammy?”  
  
“But, Dad ...”  
  
“Don’t worry ‘bout Dad, kiddo. He, uh, he helped finish off the salt n’ burn and then took off.”  
  
Although it’s not terribly unexpected, Sam still feels that flash of disappointment – and hurt, if he feels like being honest – that Dad left without even making sure he was okay. But it’s always been the same old shit. Dad knows that Dean’s there to take care of Sammy, so that means he doesn’t need to be. Dean’s always taken care of him better than Dad ever could, anyway.  
  
Sam ends up having to stay in the hospital for another day. They run test after test, making sure that he’s completely okay down to every last bruise, before they discharge him into his brother’s care with strict instructions to take it easy until his arm is healed and all the concussion symptoms are gone. Sam has some suspicion that all the extensive testing was at Dean’s request, and he finds it sweet and irritating at the same time. He hates being fussed over, but it’s also nice to know how much Dean cares about him.  
  
Climbing into the Impala feels better than it ever has and Sam lets out a contented sigh, slumping back against the leather bench seat and closing his eyes, relaxing for the first time since he opened them twenty-four hours ago. Dean’s quiet as they drive – a little too quiet, maybe. Even though they’ve been slowly growing apart over the last few months, Sam still knows his brother, still knows that there’s something going on that Dean’s not talking about. No real surprise there. Dean doesn’t talk about his feelings, as much as Sam wishes he would. It feels like more, though, than Dean’s usual keep-everything-inside crap. Feels like whatever Dean’s keeping locked up tight isn’t something he just won’t say, it’s something he won’t say to  _Sam_  specifically. The thought that there’s something bothering his brother that he thinks Sam wouldn’t understand makes Sam’s chest hurt.  
  
Dad must’ve at least taken the time to set them up in another rent-by-the-week dump if the dilapidated house that Dean pulls up in front of is any indication. It looks like it’s been abandoned for years and Sam wonders if maybe he’s wrong, if maybe Dean found this place for them to squat in while they wait for Dad to show back up. Doesn’t matter. Sam won’t ask and Dean won’t tell. Same old song, different verse. There are two bedrooms but Dean still insists that they share, merely glaring at Sam in that ‘I’m your big brother and I know what’s best’ way that Dean’s perfected over the years. Yet another thing Sam should’ve been expecting, even if he isn’t particularly happy about it. The look on Dean’s face says Sam would be stupid to argue, though, so really, he has no other option but to settle in and share.  
  
School’s out for the year now so there’s nothing to distract Sam. He sits around the house all day, rereading what few books he has for the millionth time. There’s a TV in the living room but no cable, so it manages to only get three snowy, blurry channels. His cast itches and he’s still got a residual headache that won’t quite go away completely. And he’s stuck in this fucking house all day long with his fucking brother and his fucking stupid, pretty face and his fucking being all nice to Sam all the time. And Sam ... Just. Can't. Take. It.  
  
Here’s the thing. Dean’s mostly perfect in Sam’s eyes. Sure, he’s snarky and sarcastic and emotionally retarded and a total ego-maniac, but that’s just Dean. And there’s a whole different side to his brother that no one sees besides Sam. Not even Dad gets to see it. It’s a softer side, the concerned big brother that helps Sam wash his hair over the sink while he has his cast on, who makes sure that Sam takes his painkillers and gets enough rest and eats three meals a day – even if that means there are some days when Dean doesn’t eat at all. It’s the side that doesn’t ditch Sam to go out to the bar or to pick up chicks while he’s stuck in the house; plays cards with him instead. It’s the side that climbs into Sam’s bed in the middle of the night when Sam wakes up with a splitting headache, holds him and pets through his hair soothingly until he falls back asleep and doesn’t even give him shit for it in the morning.  
  
He’s beautiful inside and out – cocky, charming, teasing, brave, fiercely loyal, with a James Dean-esque bad-boy attitude that’s mostly for show except with Sam, when he’s finally  _real_. Flawed and stubborn and overbearing and annoying and utterly amazing. And Sam’s so stupidly in love with him that it isn’t even remotely close to funny.  
  
It took him a long damn time – and more than a few freak-outs – to figure out that’s what it was, to realize  _that_  was the uncomfortable feeling that had been scratching at his insides for longer than he cares to remember. But now that he has figured it out, it makes a startling amount of sense. In the most fucked up way possible, but it still makes sense nonetheless. Dean is Sam’s everything, has been his whole life. He's the only constant thing Sam's ever had and his brother’s whole existence is defined by taking care of Sam. It’s wrong and confusing and Sam actually hates himself for it, a lot. But it is what it is. He can’t change it, can’t do shit about it. He tries to. He tries to make himself look at girls the way Dean does – tries to see their soft curves and pretty smiles and shy eyes and make himself want to feel their skin under his hands. He tries to remind himself that Dean’s his  _brother_ , that it’s so wrong and immoral and quite possibly illegal. But his heart doesn’t give a damn about any of that. It wants what it wants, and it wants Dean. So he just has to live with it.  
  
Because there’s no way in hell Dean can ever know.  
  
Now that Sam’s finally admitted the truth to himself, it’s rapidly getting worse. He notices the little things now more than he ever did before. Like how Dean’s bright green eyes crinkle at the corners and sparkle when he smiles. How nothing makes him smile more than Sam letting Dean take care of him, letting Dean be the big brother that Sam insists he doesn’t need anymore. How, even in sleep, Dean looks too serious, too old, always keeping his senses hunter-sharp. He notices that Dean's freckles look like cinnamon-colored flecks against his pale skin and he wants to count them and touch them and taste them. He notices the strong, lean line of his brother’s muscular back and how it shifts when he moves and tapers from broad shoulders to lean waist and hips down to those adorably bowed legs. And his brother’s long lashes and high cheekbones that soften his face, far too pretty to accurately showcase the hard, tough, ass-kicking hunter that Dean actually is, and his plump lips that just beg to be kissed and licked and sucked. His hands, so vastly different from Sam’s – strong, blunt, thick fingers compared to Sam’s long, slender, almost elegant ones.  
  
They’re as different as night and day, but somehow exactly the same. They’re two pieces of the same puzzle, jagged edges fitting together to turn something random and chaotic into something that makes sense. It’s as painful as it is beautiful, and Sam is just so, so completely screwed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam’s been out of the hospital for over a week when he wakes up with a pounding headache – leftover from the concussion and the three-inch cut at his temple – and so nauseated he barely makes it to the bathroom to empty the meager contents of his stomach. Dean’s there in the span of a heartbeat, one strong, warm arm wrapped around Sam’s waist, the other smoothing the sweat-damp hair off his forehead.  
  
He’s too close, the scent of his brother overwhelming Sam, even over the rancid smell of puke – leather and coffee, gun-oil and Old Spice ... Dean. Sam leans back against Dean’s broad chest, revels in what he can never truly have for just a moment, just long enough to torture himself, before pulling away. Dean sends him back to bed and Sam hears him flushing the toilet and running water in the sink while he stumbles back to their room and collapses onto the mattress. His eyes are closed but he can hear his brother re-enter the room, sighing softly at the sensation of a warm, wet cloth wiping over his face and down his neck.  
  
“Sit up, Sammy,” Dean says softly, helping Sam get vertical enough to take a sip of water, then another that he swishes around in his mouth before spitting it back into the glass. The concern and love he sees in Dean’s eyes is too much and Sam turns onto his side, curling into a ball with his back to his brother.  
  
He sleeps most of that day, waking up the next to an empty room – his brother’s bed not slept in. He gets up, finds his brother curled up awkwardly on the sagging couch in the living room, the dilapidated piece of furniture not even close to big enough for his brother’s six-foot frame. Ever the well-trained hunter – and always scarily in tune with Sam – Dean blinks awake instantly, sitting straight up and eyeing Sam with concern.  
  
“What’re you doin’ up?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and harsh with concern. It sends a shiver down Sam’s spine.  
  
“M’fine, Dean.”  
  
He wants to say that he was worried when he woke up and Dean wasn’t in their room, but he knows that there’s no way he can say that without it coming out wrong. So instead he just heads to the kitchen, digging into cabinets even though he’s really not hungry. And, just like Sam knew he would be, Dean’s in the room a moment later, face thunderous but terrified below the surface if you know what to look for. Sam knows what to look for. He’s just confused and thrown by what he sees.  
  
“Go back to bed, Sam. I’ll fix ya somethin’.”  
  
“I can handle it myself.” Sam would roll his eyes if he didn’t think the muscle movements involved in that particular action might make his head explode. And, just because his own body is apparently against him now too, he wobbles slightly even though he’s standing perfectly still. And of course, Dean’s ever-perceptive gaze picks up on it.  
  
“Damn it, Sam!” he grinds out, one arm snaking around Sam’s waist to steady him. “You’re still hurt. You need to fuckin’ rest. What would I do if ...” he trails off, eyes wide but staring at some spot on the wall over Sam’s shoulder.  
  
“Dean, it’s a broken arm and a concussion, not terminal cancer,” Sam points out irately. “I’m a little banged up but I’m  _fine_. I can make myself a sandwich, you don’t have to be waiting on me hand and foot.”  
  
“No, that’s not … you don’t know …”  
  
“I don’t know what?”  
  
“Never mind,” Dean mutters, but Sam grabs a handful of his t-shirt with his good hand and doesn’t let him walk away.  
  
“No, c’mon, what? You can’t be all pissy with me and not tell me why.”  
  
Dean glares, but he doesn’t make any further attempts to move away. “You don’t know what it was like, okay? You were knocked out, you don’t …” He sighs heavily and sits down at the table; Sam lets him because he’s scared if he moves, it’ll spook Dean and he’ll stop talking. “I saw you get thrown against that wall, that was bad enough, but then there was this loud smack when your head hit, and then you just crumpled. Your arm was all busted up, you were out cold and there was blood all over your head, I didn’t even know if you were still alive! I was freaking out, if Dad hadn’t been there … we got you to the hospital and then they took you away, and it was such a freakin’ long time before anyone came to tell us what was going on, we were just sitting there not knowing if some surgeon was gonna come out and tell us they’d lost you, that … that  _I’d_  lost you.”  
  
Sam’s breath catches in his throat. “You didn’t.”  
  
“I thought I was going to,” Dean argues sullenly.  
  
“Okay. Well, look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you and I’m sorry you’re upset, but Dean, you can’t … if I’m gonna come on hunts with you guys, I’m gonna get hurt.”  
  
Dean scoffs. “Not if I have anything to say about it, you won’t.”  
  
Sam sighs and resists rolling his eyes again because it wouldn’t help. Dean’s fierce protectiveness is sweet, but it’s a little insulting too. Sometimes Sam has trouble telling whether Dean’s just hell-bent on keeping him safe, or if he’s like this because he doesn’t think Sam can do it himself. “That’s dumb. It’s a dangerous job, you know that. You and Dad get hurt all the time.”  
  
“That’s different.”  
  
“No, it isn’t, actually!” Sam explodes. He’s trying really hard to be understanding and see things from Dean’s side, but he’s quickly losing grasp on his temper. “What, you think I’m so fragile and helpless that I can’t deal with a broken bone? Dad comes home beaten to hell half the time, and you barely bat an eye! And you’ve broken a few bones yourself! So what, you guys can handle it but I can’t?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant!” Dean cries, but Sam ignores him.  
  
“Look, I appreciate you taking care of me and everything, I really do. But you gotta back off, alright? I’m not an invalid, I don’t need you hovering around me all the time.”  
  
The look on Dean’s face is so full of hurt and confusion that Sam almost backs down, almost takes everything back and lets Dean fuss over him like they both know Dean wants to. But he doesn’t, because he can’t. Dean’s been so sweet and attentive these last few days, it’s been so much like it used to be between them when taking care of Sam was Dean’s reason for breathing, that Sam’s emotions are getting all tangled and messed up in his head. He wants Dean in a way that he shouldn’t want him,  _can’t_  want him, and having Dean so close to him all the time is making his body confused.  
  
“You want me to back off?” Dean repeats, in short, clipped tones. “I’ve been bending over backward trying to help you and get you better and you want me to back off?”  
  
Sam swallows over a lump in his throat, instantly regretting his words as Dean stands up abruptly and grabs his jacket.  
  
“Fine,” he grumbles. “You don’t want me around, that’s just fine. I’m outta here.”  
  
“Wait, no, I didn’t say I don’t want you around!” Sam protests. This is so not going how he wanted it to.  
  
“You know, as shitty as the last couple days have been, it’s kinda been good too,” Dean says heavily, shooting an unreadable glance at Sam over his shoulder. “We’ve sorta been  _brothers_  again, man. I missed that. You’ve been different these last few months, it’s like you don’t want anything to do with me anymore and I don’t understand why.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam pleads pitifully. He’s wrong, he’s so wrong about everything but Sam just can’t tell him that. It’s not that Sam doesn’t want anything to do with him, it’s that Sam wants  _everything_ to do with him, even though he knows he can’t have it.  
  
“Never mind, it’s fine.” Dean grabs his keys and wallet, and he’s out the door before Sam can think of anything to say that would make him stay.  
   
===  
  
Dean doesn’t know where he’s going. He has no particular destination in mind, he’s just driving because it’s the only thing his brain can come up with to do. He doesn’t want to go to a bar, he’s not hungry or thirsty, there’s nothing he needs to pick up from the supermarket or anywhere else – nothing he can think of to keep himself busy during the pretense of giving Sammy some space. So he just drives. He white-knuckles the steering wheel, floors the accelerator, cranks Van Halen up to near eardrum-rupturing levels, and drives until he can’t anymore. Small-town roads filled with potholes to the main drag past the drug store and the gas station and the bar-slash-hotel-slash-post-office he’d been no stranger to in the last few days, to the two-lane rural highway to the four-lane interstate. He passes trees and ranch houses and vast expanses of empty desert and he doesn’t see any of it, and he’s almost at the Arizona state line when he finally runs out of gas.  
  
Or, well, the Impala runs out of gas. Dean himself is still so mad and hurt and confused that he could keep driving for days if he wanted to, just burning up rubber and anger and stewing in his own emotions. But he hates emotions. They’re sticky and uncomfortable and they don’t help anything. So he gets a room as Alex Turner, Mastercard holder, on the outskirts of a city called Gallup and tries to focus his energy on how much he hates New Mexico based solely on the fact that they would name a city something that sounds so close to the word for a horse running.  
  
Cactuses are kinda cool though, so all things considered, it isn’t so bad. Cactuses? Cacti? Whatever. Point is, it could be worse. He could be in Florida.  
  
He doesn’t think about Sam. Sam didn’t want him around, so now Dean isn’t. Simple as that. Dean doesn’t bother having hurt feelings over it, because that would make him a pussy and Dean definitely isn’t one. He thinks about the heat and the dry desert air, he thinks about how he should really find some sealant for his tires so the sand doesn’t mess with them, he thinks about how completely livid Dad would be if he found out Dean left Sammy on his own, he thinks about the little blond number who works at the diner across the street – the kind of chick who would be a six at best somewhere like Ohio, but here’s she’s a hard ten because it’s hotter than fuck outside and she’s wearing tiny Daisy Duke cut-off shorts and a clingy tank top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.  
  
Dean watches her serving tables on the patio through his dirty motel room window for maybe fifteen minutes after he checks in – resolutely ignoring how her skin is the same shade of caramel as Sam’s is – meanders over to get something to eat half an hour later, and then fucks her in her Toyota Camry twenty minutes after that. He shows her a damn good time, he’s Dean Winchester after all, he’s got a reputation to uphold, but sex has never felt so hollow and meaningless. He blames Sam for that; Sam and his stupid teenage angst and his stubborn independence and the way all it takes is a few words for him to make Dean feel like he’s completely worthless.  
  
Damn it. He isn’t supposed to be thinking about Sam.  _Hot chicks, hot chicks, hot chicks._  
  
He finds a hunt, surprisingly enough. He wasn’t really looking for one, and he hadn’t actually intended on staying here for any longer than one night – just long enough to give himself and Sam some time to cool down – but he read in the paper about an old house everyone’s always hearing strange noises coming from and a few people missing who were thought to have been last seen on the property. It’s just a poltergeist or something, probably, they like to mess with people more for the hell of it than to cause any actual injury. But Dean decides to check it out because he’s got nothing better to do, and because if somehow Dad found out that he not only left Sam but also ignored a possible hunt? At best, he’d put Dean on grave-digging duty for the rest of his life. At worst? Dean doesn’t want to think about it.  
  
He doesn’t have his resident geek squad with him, so instead of heading out to the library himself and figuring out what the thing is before he charges in head first, Dean just charges in head first. Whatever, that whole ‘having a plan’ thing is overrated. Most of the time he’s pretty sure Dad just lets Sam go through town records and history books and whatever else as a way of giving him something to do. He shouldn’t bother, Sam would be just as happy having absolutely nothing to do with a hunt at all. And he’s thinking about Sam again. Maybe he has a tumor.  
  
The house is on the opposite side of town from where Dean’s staying. He doesn’t leave until the sun has set, and he’s held up by Stacy – Stella? Stephanie? Whatever-her-name-is from the diner – showing up randomly with a bottle of champagne he doesn’t know how she managed to score because there’s no way she’s legal, and it takes him way too long to convince her he doesn’t want to have sex with her again. By the time he actually gets out to the ranch, it’s well after midnight. The place is deserted and looks like it has been for years, decades even. It’s creepy, like these places always are, and Dean wishes for just a minute that he wasn’t alone. He’s never been on a hunt completely by himself before. But that’s stupid, he’ll be twenty this year and sooner or later he’d probably have ended up hunting on his own anyway. Sooner is fine by him. Especially since the whole thing has done a very effective job of taking his mind off all those things he isn’t supposed to be thinking about.  
  
He parks the Impala a good enough distance away from the house that if whatever it is gets pissed, which is inevitable since he’ll be trying to kill it, it won’t retaliate by going after his baby. He grabs a couple things from the arsenal in the trunk – his shotgun, salt, puts a handful of silver bullets in one pocket and a handful of rock salt pellets in the other, holy water (even though he’s never actually seen a demon, but you can’t be too careful) – and trudges up the slope to the front door.  
  
It creaks on the way open, and Dean steps inside and looks around. The first thing he notices is the smell; there are definitely dead bodies here. The overwhelming, rotted stench of decomposing human flesh isn’t something Dean’s brain could ever forget. As long as there aren’t any live victims, Dean won’t worry about the bodies. He’ll just ice whatever it is that killed them and leave the rest for the local cops. Notifying families that their husbands and sisters and daughters-in-law are no longer anything more than a pile of maggots isn’t in Dean’s job description. The next thing he notices is that it’s easily fifteen degrees cooler in here than it was outside, and that means it’s a spirit. Simple. Dean loads the sawed-off full of rock salt and cocks it.  
  
Bring it on.  
  
He does a quick sweep of the house, figures out where the smell is coming from, spends a minute trying not to hurl, and fairly quickly deduces that there hasn’t been anything alive in this house for a good while. So the spirit itself is all Dean has to worry about, as soon as he can find it. That’s strange, these things usually show themselves pretty quickly when someone starts poking around. So Dean waits, his heart in his throat like is always is in the middle of a hunt, caught somewhere between exhilarated and terrified and  _alive_  in a way even things like alcohol and sex can never duplicate. He knocks a few things over as he walks around, lamps and expensive looking vases, in the hopes of annoying the thing enough to draw it out.  
  
It works, eventually. Dean callously tips over a framed photograph of a smiling, middle-aged man in a cowboy hat and a sweet looking little girl on his knee, and then he stomps on it for good measure, and the room chills another few degrees and there’s a ghostly whoosh of air and a whisper Dean doesn’t quite pick up over the rush of blood in his ears.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, did that mean something to you?” he calls out. “So which one are you?”  
  
There’s a scream so shrill it makes the hairs on Dean’s arms stand on end, and he whips around just in time to see bloodshot eyes filled with rage and a flurry of black hair rushing at him, picking him up like he was nothing and slamming him into the opposite wall. He goes right through it, the drywall old enough that it shatters like glass, and Dean grunts as he lands hard on the rubble and a sharp pain shoots through his lower back. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, trying to breathe through the searing pain in his back and the throbbing in his ankle where it’s probably sprained, and when he opens his eyes, she’s hovering right over him.  
  
It’s the little girl, but she looks like the thing that killed her was the business end of a freight train. There’s blood all over her small body, a whole chunk of her skull missing, and her face is twisted into so much fury it’s a lot more frightening than Dean would be willing to admit.  
  
“Get out of my house!” she screeches, reaching for him again, but Dean’s too quick. Even as his head spins, he manages to grab the shotgun he’d dropped when she threw him through the wall.  
  
“Not gonna happen, bitch,” he grinds out, pulling the trigger and blasting her with a face full of salt. She screams again and disappears into thin air. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans, heaving himself up and reaching back to a spot just left of his spine. When he pulls his hand back, it’s covered in blood, and Dean decides too late that maybe he isn’t quite ready to handle a hunt on his own.  
  
He isn’t done, though, so he clenches his jaw and does his best to ignore the radiating waves of pain as he heads out back and searches for graves. He has no idea who the girl is and if she’s even buried on the property, and then he realizes, again too late, why having a plan actually is important. Dean feels like a complete moron. He should have known better than this, a lot better. He could blame Sam again, he could blame his poor judgment on their fight and on how much it messed with his head, but the truth is Dean was just stupid. The sooner he gets out of here, the sooner he can start hustling and stealing and whatever else he has to do to rustle up the thousands of dollars it’s going to take to bribe Sam into never telling Dad about this.  
  
By nothing more than dumb luck, Dean actually manages to find a small graveyard at the very edges of the property. None of the stones have names on them, only dates of birth and death, but one marks the grave of someone who only lived for ten years, so Dean figures that’s his best bet. He walks all the way back to the car to get a shovel, his gun cocked and ready the whole time in case she decides to come back for round two. She doesn’t until Dean’s got the pit dug and the coffin cracked open, gas poured and match tossed into it, and even then she just floats there and glares at him, warning him that he’ll pay for this as she burns up. It’s still creepy as hell, but it could’ve been a lot worse.  
  
Somehow, through adrenaline or sheer force of will or maybe his body slipping into a mild form of shock, Dean gets his battered, bloodied self back to the Impala and pulls her back onto the highway. However this plays out, Dean is just so very screwed. But he can’t stitch the wound on his back up himself, can barely reach it at all, and hospitals are out of the question so turning tail and running back to Sam is his only choice.  
   
===  
  
Dean didn’t come back for two whole days. The sun set and rose and set again, and Sam was still alone. It was excruciating. He didn’t even call, and Sam had no idea if his brother was okay, where he was, if he was even alive. Sam spent the entire forty-eight hours in sheer misery, sitting by the phone and waiting like an army wife for the sound of the Impala to wash over him, soothing his aching heart and bringing Dean back to him. But it didn’t happen. For two days, it didn’t happen.  
  
Sam cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, three and a half times. It took him way longer than it would’ve if he’d had the proper use of both his hands, and even still it barely managed to pass the time. He read his books over again, even though he’d read them all in just the last week. He attempted to give himself a haircut and gave up when he cut a chunk over his ear too short and ended up looking home-schooled. And it’s the middle of July, so Sam didn’t even have school to distract him. There was no homework or bullies or being the weird new kid or awkwardness of looming school dances. There were no scratchy, uncomfortable thoughts of how, pretty as they may be, no girl Sam’s ever met could hold a candle to Dean in any way. There was just loneliness.  
  
Until finally, at almost five-thirty in the morning and Sam hasn’t slept a minute all night, headlights flash outside on the driveway and the gentle rumble of the Impala announces Dean’s return. There’s a small part of Sam that’s happy his brother is back and, presumably, unharmed. But there’s a significantly larger part that has never been this furious before, and is Going. To. Kill. Him.  
  
Sam paces back and forth, waiting not-so-patiently for his stupid, inconsiderate, asshole of a big brother to come through the door. It takes longer than it should and when Dean finally bursts into the room Sam sees why. He’s pale – more pale than usual, the freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose more pronounced than Sam ever remembers seeing them – except for the twin spots of color staining the jut of his high cheekbones. There’s a thin sheen of sweat at his temples, his upper lip, wetting the front of his t-shirt at the collar and down between his pecs. And sure, it’s hot out, but not  _that_  hot. Dean drops his duffel just inside the door and Sam hears the clatter of weapons bouncing together and that’s another troubling thing – Dean’s  _never_  that careless with his weapons. And that’s when Sam finally gets a look at his brother’s shaky hands and hazy, glassy eyes. Something’s wrong. And suddenly, Sam can’t breathe. He can’t  _fucking breathe_. Because something is wrong with Dean and there  _can’t_  be something wrong with Dean and Sam doesn’t have a faint clue how to handle that.  
  
“Heya, Sammy,” he slurs, weaving like he’s drunk but Sam knows he’s not; can’t pick up the increasingly familiar smell of beer and whiskey that’s becoming part of Dean’s natural scent.  
  
Dean moves to step further into the room but wavers, one hand shooting out to catch himself on the doorframe. His hand is covered with dried blood and Sam somehow instinctively knows that it’s Dean’s own blood and that’s what suddenly snaps him out of his stupor and gets him moving.  
  
“Dean,” he whispers hoarsely, feeling like the little kid that Dean teases him about still being, taking a tentative step forward.  
  
“S’okay, kiddo,” Dean mutters around a forced-smile that looks like a grimace. “M’okay.”  
  
And damn him for doing that. Damn him for still trying to be the big brother even at a time like this, for still trying to protect Sam, for lying to him when it’s very freaking obvious that he’s  _not_  okay.  
  
Dean pushes himself away from the wall and staggers toward the living room. He only makes it a few steps before he stumbles again and that’s just  _it_. Sam surges forward, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and carefully maneuvering him into the living room and onto the couch. Dean bitches and protests the whole time – just wouldn’t be Sam’s pain-in-the-ass big brother if he didn’t – but he slumps gratefully against the cushions once he gets there.  
  
Forgetting what he’s been going through – thinking the absolute worst for two whole days – and forgetting what drove Dean out of the house and away from Sam in the first place, and forgetting for just a second how dangerous it is to be close to Dean these days, Sam instantly pulls off his brother’s leather jacket and over-shirt. He sucks in a startled gasp when he sees the back of Dean’s t-shirt covered in blood. With shaking hands, Sam pulls the soiled grey material up just enough to see Dean’s back, blinking around the reflexive tears stinging at the corners of his eyes when he sees the six inch long gash right over his brother’s left kidney, a few inches away from his spine.  
  
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam rasps, his throat thick and his skin too-tight. He feels like he’s going to split apart at any moment. Just a few more inches, and … he can’t think about that right now.  
  
“Fuckin’ spirit,” Dean grunts, trying to pull away from Sam’s assessing, lingering fingers. “Easy, man. That shit fuckin’ hurts.”  
  
Sam clenches his jaw and fights the urge to push down harder just because Dean’s a dumbass. And a dick.  
  
He wants to ask, wants to know what happened, what Dean’s been up to for forty-eight hours and how he managed to get himself hurt by a ghost – thrown around if the bruises littering his ribs are any indication. But he won’t, he can’t, not right now. Now he needs to focus on patching his brother up. Almost as if on auto-pilot – he’s done this too many times to count, doesn’t want to think about how many times he’s had to stitch up his Dad and brother, doesn’t want to think about how he could do most field triage before he was even in double digits – he grabs the first-aid kit and one of the bottles of cheap whiskey out of the duffel that they keep for occasions just like this.  
  
Mechanically – methodically – he washes his hands before heading back into the living room. Dean’s head is tipped back against the cushions and his eyes are closed, his long lashes brushing his flushed, freckled cheeks. His breathing is shallow and Sam’s chest aches while he’s holding his own breath until the next inhale. He’s aware somewhere in the back of his head that he’s being slightly over-dramatic; it’s just a freaking gash, Dean’s had much worse; but it  _could_  have been more and he’d never know because he wasn’t there with Dean. Just a few more inches toward the center and Dean would have been paralyzed. He’d have bled to death, alone, and then he’d just never have come back and Sam never would have known what happened to him. And this is why he hates the life so goddamn much.  
   
He gently shakes Dean by the shoulder, wordlessly holding out the bottle of rotgut when glassy hazel-green eyes slide open and lock with his own. Dean smiles faintly and takes the bottle, giving him a mock-salute with it, before taking several long swallows. Sam tries not to focus on the distracting bob of his Adam’s apple, but he fails. Miserably.  
  
After a few moments, he takes the bottle back and gently urges Dean onto his stomach, grabbing Dean’s hunting knife from his belt and slitting the shirt up the back. Dean’s silent while Sam works – sterilizing the needle and threading it, just a slight hiss when Sam pours whiskey over the wound, but quiet again while Sam pokes the needle through his skin over and over again; small, neat stitches that any doctor would be proud of. There’s sweat beading along Sam’s temple and his top lip, down his back, and his hands are covered in his brother’s blood by the time he ties off the last stitch, not even giving it a second thought before he bends down and nips the thread off close to his brother’s skin. There’s a too-familiar coppery tang when he licks his lips but Sam ignores it and sets about cleaning around the wound once again.  
  
To his surprise, Dean doesn’t move once he’s finished and within a few minutes, he’s snoring softly. Sam sits on the dirty living room carpet and watches him – idly wondering in the back of his mind if Dean hadn’t slept in the entire time they’ve been apart just like Sam hasn’t. He watches his brother for what feels like minutes but is probably closer to hours, not even really paying any attention to the fact that he’s slowly emptying the bottle of whiskey that still sits by his hip.  
   
===  
  
Dean’s eyes flutter open and for a moment he’s confused about where he is. His head is spinning a little like he’s had too much to drink but he doesn’t remember having  _anything_  to drink, and his ankle throbs a little with his heartbeat like he’d twisted it. His back aches like there’s an anvil crushing it, and then when he moves a little there’s the distinctive pull of stitches and suddenly it all comes rushing back. The ranch house, the spirit, the jagged edge of broken drywall that forced itself through his skin because he was too stupid and stubborn and angry to call Dad and wait for backup.  
  
Well, at least he made it home to Sam. And speaking of Sam …  
  
Dean turns his head enough to see his little brother sitting on the floor next to the couch, swaying slightly even though he’s just sitting, and there’s an empty fifth of whiskey clutched in Sam’s loose fist. Frowning, Dean pushes himself up so that he’s sitting on the couch, barely biting back the pained hiss that wants to erupt from his throat as the muscles in his back twist and stretch the fresh wound. He doesn’t have time to worry about that. He apparently has a drunk little brother to deal with.  
  
“Sam,” he barks gruffly, almost laughing when startled, glassy hazel eyes dart over to him, blinking a few times like Sam had forgotten Dean was there. “What the fuck?”  
  
Sam pushes himself up to his knees – wobbling unsteadily and Dean instinctively shoots one hand out to try to help his brother but Sam scowls and smacks it away. Dean raises an eyebrow, ready to give Sam hell for it, but Sam’s slurred voice stops him.  
  
“Don’ you ‘what the fuck’ me, Dean,” he mutters. “I was worried sick. An’ then you come back like that,” he drunkenly flails one arm toward Dean, “so I think  _I_  get to say, what the fuck.”  
  
That made absolutely  _no_  sense and Dean’s just about to tell Sam so, when all of a sudden he’s got his arms full of his drunk, not-so-little little brother. Sam paws unsteadily at his face, his eyes wide and so miserable that it makes Dean’s chest  _ache_  – fuck, he hates seeing Sammy in any kind of pain. Sam’s muttering something that at first Dean can’t make out, not until Sam slumps forward and his forehead bumps against Dean’s hard enough to bruise but Dean doesn’t pull away.  
  
“So fuckin’ scared,” Sam mumbles over and over again.  
  
Dean swallows thickly. As much as he hates seeing Sam like this, he hates it even more that it’s his fault. He’s really just failing all around lately at that whole  _taking care of Sammy_ thing he’s supposed to be good at. He puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, ready to gently push his brother back and get him into his bed so he can sleep this off, when Sam suddenly surges forward, slamming their lips together. Dean’s so shocked that for a moment he can’t move. It’s wet and sloppy and mostly off-center and it’s something Dean never thought he’d get, never even allowed himself to think about it. This is  _Sam_ , his precious baby brother that means the fucking world to him, that he’d kill and die for in less than a heartbeat, and he’s not supposed to feel this way. It’s wrong, it’s so very wrong and bad and just a big fat glowing neon  _no_  from whatever angle Dean looks at it.  
  
But, God help him, he kisses Sam right back. For just a minute or two, Dean’s a selfish bastard and takes the one thing that somewhere deep inside he’s always wanted but would never let himself have.  _Could_  never let himself have, because it’s Sammy, and Sammy deserves so much more than this. But it’s good, in that totally dirty-bad-wrong way, and Dean can’t help himself. Sam makes this whimpery little moan, and it shoots like an arrow straight to Dean’s cock and  _God_ , no girl has ever made him feel like this before. But then Sam’s tongue slides over Dean’s bottom lip and he tastes and smells like whiskey and reality smacks Dean right in the face. Sam is drunk, and as much as this can ever never happen even in perfect circumstances it sure as  _hell_  shouldn’t be happening when Sam’s  _drunk._  
  
Dean pulls away with a sharp gasp, eyes widening as he jumps off the couch, resolutely ignoring the hurt look on Sam’s face; the frown turning down his –  _fuck_  – kiss-bruised, shiny-wet lips. He’s freaking out. Somehow, he doesn’t know how because he tried  _so_  hard to keep it buried as deep as he possibly could, but somehow Sam picked up on those not-right feelings, figured out that Dean’s a sick fucking pervert and somehow, without meaning to, Dean’s managed to do the one thing he swore to himself he never would; he’s corrupted his precious, innocent little Sammy. Sam, with his sweet smile and his soulful eyes that know too much but still see beauty in the world, his dorky sense of humor and his kind, patient nature and his heart the size of Texas. The one thing Dean was supposed to do in this world was protect all of that, and instead he did the exact opposite. He’s become the thing Sam needs protection  _from_.  
  
He’s going to puke. Seriously. He’s going to fucking puke. What if Dad finds out? What if Dad  _knows_? He’s a dead man. And it’s exactly what he fucking deserves.  
  
“Dean?” Sam’s quiet, small, child-like voice – Jesus  _fucking_  Christ, he’s just a  _kid_  and that means Dean’s a goddamn pedophile on top of everything else – startles Dean and he realizes that he’s pacing in front of the couch like a caged animal, probably muttering all those thoughts out loud. Great. Just fantastic. He’s never been able to resist Sam, or that voice, so he turns to his brother, almost crying himself when he sees the tears in Sam’s wide, dewy, puppy dog eyes.  
  
“C’mon, kiddo. You need to get to bed. Sleep this shit off in case Dad comes home early. Can’t have him seeing you like this, he’d be beyond pissed.” Dean’s a coward and he knows it. Sam opens his mouth to no doubt protest, but Dean can’t hear anything that he has to say right now. He can’t even look at him. “Seriously, Sam.”  
  
Tough, no-nonsense tone that he learned from Dad. It used to make him proud that he took after his father, but in this moment he hates it. Sam’s shoulders slump and he gets up off the floor, weaving unsteadily toward his bedroom and Dean has to wrap his arms across his chest, grabbing and squeezing his own biceps to keep from reaching out to steady his brother. He doesn’t even wait to hear the sound of the bedroom door closing before he’s out the front door and back into the Impala.  
   
===  
  
Sam pries his gritty eyes open, his head pounding from the hangover and from hours spent crying after Dean walked out on him.  _Again_. He’s pretty sure Dean won’t come back this time even if he  _is_  bleeding to death, and nothing has ever hurt so much. Even though he doesn’t  _want_ to think about it, the memories hit him fast and hard – patching Dean up, drinking until he was drunk, kissing Dean … holy shit, he’d kissed Dean. And for a few brief-but-glorious seconds, Dean had kissed him back. Then pushed him away. Tears stream down Sam’s face completely beyond his control and despite the painful throbbing in his head, and there’s an ache in his chest so consuming it feels like his heart might actually be breaking and he just … he can’t be here anymore. Dad will be coming back eventually and then so will Dean and Sam just can’t.  
  
Dean knows. He knows the secret, he knows the one thing Sam was supposed to be able to keep from him. Sam  _swore_  to himself he’d never let Dean find out, and then he barely lasted two weeks. This is bad. It’s really, really,  _really_  bad.  
  
Not even stopping to think about it, Sam grabs his duffel and starts shoving his things into it, swallowing thickly when he pushes open the door to Dean’s room and grabs the secret stash of money his brother keeps hidden at the bottom of his own duffel bag. He hesitates for just a second, heart beating dangerously in his chest, before he makes himself walk out of the house, toward the nearest bus station. He has no destination in mind but the bored-sounding lady at the ticket counter tells him that he can make it as far as Flagstaff with the money he has. That will work for now. He’ll figure everything else out later.


	3. Chapter 3

For a while, Dean just drives and drives, aimlessly in circles around the small town. He can’t leave, not again, not after what happened the last time he took off and left Sam alone. He got himself hurt and then he ended up hurting Sam more than flesh wounds ever could, and Dean can’t risk that happening again. So once again, he just drives, resolutely  _not_  thinking about how good Sam’s lips felt against his own, how right it felt to have Sam in his arms like he’d only dared to allow himself to think about in the darkest part of the night where it’s just him and his sick desires.  
  
Okay, so maybe he’s not doing such a good job with the whole  _not thinking about it_  thing.  
  
Unsurprisingly, he finds himself at the only bar in this tiny, shit-hole town. He sits in the parking lot, staring out the windshield at the door. It’d be so easy. Even busted up and sore and still reeling from what he just ran away from, he knows like he knows his own name that he could go in there and find some willing chick, have her naked and writhing in the back of his baby in ten minutes tops. Quick, simple, uncomplicated. This is something Dean knows how to do, something he’s  _good_  at. They’re hardly ever in one place for long enough for him to learn a girl’s last name, let alone fuck her more than once, so Dean is the master of the one night stands. Still, he finds himself unable to do it. He’s just so freaking exhausted; tired of the meaningless hook-ups and trying to find what he’s looking for in the nameless, faceless girls. Especially when he knows, now more than ever, that he won’t find it no matter how hard he tries. What’s missing in his heart – in his fucking soul – is long, coltish limbs and floppy hair and slanted hazel-green eyes; everything he just ran away from because he  _can’t_  let himself have that as much as he’d like to.  
  
People start stumbling out of the bar as he watches from behind the wheel and it’s only then that Dean realizes he’s been sitting there for  _hours_. Sam’s probably passed out by now so it should be safe to go back. And while he’s pissed that Sam got drunk like that – he’s well aware that he’s a freaking hypocrite because he gets that drunk all the damn time, but Sam’s supposed to be better than that, better than  _him_  – he actually hopes that Sammy was drunk enough to not remember anything that happened tonight. It’s really the best outcome that he can hope for. That way, he can tell Sam the only thing that happened was him being a drunk idiot, and Sam will be so grateful when Dean promises not to tell Dad that he won’t ask any more questions, and Dean can go back to shoving all his feelings down as deep as he possibly can.  
  
Driving back to the house is actually one of the hardest things he thinks he’s ever had to do, but he manages. The whole place is dark when he gets there, which isn’t terribly unusual, especially if Sam is in bed like he should be. But somehow, when Dean walks through the front door, he knows that something is terribly, horribly wrong. It’s that hunter’s instinct that Dad has been drilling into him since he was old enough to hold a gun, and the big brother instinct that’s been there a lot longer than that. Tearing through the living room and down the hall like there’s hellhounds on his ass, Dean doesn’t even bother to try and be quiet when he throws Sam’s bedroom door open, bile burning in the back of his throat when he sees Sam’s bed is empty.  
  
Ripping open the closet door, his heart literally feels like it stops when he notices that Sam’s duffel is gone along with most of the few clothes he owns. He blindly stumbles into his own room, digging into his bag; blood turning to ice in his veins when he realizes his stash of emergency money is gone. He doesn’t give a fuck that it’s not there, it’s the implications that have him gripping the doorframe hard enough to turn his knuckles white, just to keep himself upright. Sam took the money. And now he’s gone.  
  
Dean’s back in the Impala before his brain even registers his body moving, his heart pounding so hard against his ribs it feels like it’s about to explode, but he can’t stop and think about what this means. All he knows, the only thought going through his mind is that he’s got to find Sammy. He drives around for hours, checking every possible place he can think that Sam might go. But he’s nowhere. It’s like he just up and vanished. If it wasn’t for the missing money, Dean would be convinced something supernatural took his baby brother. But he knows that’s not the case. Deep down in his heart – even without the proof – he knows that Sam ran away, that Sammy  _left_ him. And yes, Dean sort of did the same thing himself just a few days ago, but he did it because they both needed some space. He had the car, he had every intention of coming back the next day. Everything Dean knows about Sam’s all-or-nothing personality says this is different.  
  
The sun’s already been up for a while when Dean heads back home – praying to a God he doesn’t even believe in that he’ll find Sammy there waiting for him, that this was either just a really horrific dream or, if it is real, that Sam decided to come back on his own. Dean knows it isn’t even close to likely that either of those things is true, but he can still hope. His whole body feels like it’s been dipped in lead when he pushes open the door again, his eyes automatically landing on the empty bottle still lying on its side in front of the couch – the couch where Sam had kissed him, where he got a taste of everything he’s ever wanted. And Sam’s not there. On some level, or on every level really, Dean knew he wouldn’t be. It’s like a punch to the gut, nonetheless.  
  
He’s still standing there when the door opens and he turns, eyes wide and a smile stuck halfway on his face, thinking for just one fleeting second that Sam came back. Only, it’s not Sam. It’s Dad, and that’s just so, so much worse. He takes one look at Dean’s still-bare chest and the dried blood Sammy didn’t quite get all the way off then his eyes flit to the empty bottle and disheveled living room then back to Dean; all-knowing gaze dark and thunderous and Dean is  _so_  dead meat.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Just one word, just his name, spoken in that low growl and Dean’s suddenly eight years old again and the Shtriga had just attacked Sammy and there’s that same look of anger and soul-crushing disappointment in Dad’s eyes. Dean doesn’t know how Dad knows, but he  _does_  and Dean better say something, and he better do it quick.  
  
“I’ll get him back, Dad,” he croaks out, fingers aching where he’s got his hands clenched into fists so tight he’s sure his knuckles are going to break through the skin.  
  
“Get him back?” Dad asks slowly, tone deceptively low and even. Dean’s not fooled for a second. “Where the hell’s your brother, Dean?”  
  
“I … I don’t know,” Dean whispers, eyes practically burning a hole through Dad’s chest because there’s no way he can look into his eyes, see that same look he saw eleven years ago.  
  
“You don’t know.” It isn’t a question, and the way Dad says it makes it sound like the absolute worst sin Dean could possibly commit. “Did something take him? Is he hurt?”  
  
“N-no. He, uh, he ran off. Took the emergency money from my duffel, Sir.” Dean sees Dad’s jaw clench out of the corner of his eye, and his back straightens automatically, shoulders squaring – always the good soldier, the good son, even when he’s screwed up so badly he won’t be surprised if Dad never forgives him.  
  
“And where in the hell were you? Out fuckin’ around like I told you not to do?”  
  
“No, Sir,” Dean responds automatically, truthfully, because he  _wasn’t_ doing that. But he sure as shit can’t tell Dad the  _real_  reason he wasn’t here when Sammy left, and Dad doesn’t seem to believe him anyway.  
  
“God damn it, Dean!” Dad snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you? You  _know_  how important it is that we watch out for each other! I leave you in charge when I can’t be here because I thought I could trust you! Does gettin’ your dick wet really mean more to you than keeping your brother safe?!”  
  
“I wasn’t!” Dean protests. “I swear, I wasn’t doing that!”  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“I …” Dean sighs and swallows a few times before he can force his vocal chords back into working properly. “There was a haunting, few towns over. I knew you were busy and I didn’t know who else to call, so I checked it out myself. But I messed up. Got hurt. Sammy stitched me up and then when I woke up, he was gone.”  
  
“You – wait,  _what_? You went on a hunt by yourself?” Dad chews out, but it’s so outrageously unfair that  _that’s_  the part he’s mad about that Dean just snaps.  
  
“I had to!” he yells. “You would’ve been furious with me if I didn’t! And don’t pretend that isn’t true because you know it is! If you found out I’d just sat here and let people die you would’ve kicked my ass!”  
  
The punch comes out of nowhere and leaves Dean’s already pounding head ringing like a bell. He can feel the trickle of blood running down the side out his mouth, knows without looking that Dad busted his lip. He can’t even bring himself to be angry. In truth, it’s probably a lot less than he deserves at this point.  
  
“Find him,” Dad grits out, meaty finger poking into Dean’s chest hard enough to bruise. “Now. I don’t care what it takes. You fucking find your brother.”  
  
The slightly rebellious part of Dean that he hides deep,  _deep_  inside wants to ask just what the fuck Dad’s going to do to help with that process, or maybe why it’s okay for Dad to constantly put the job above keeping his children safe but it isn’t okay for Dean, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. “I will, Sir,” he answers dutifully instead.  
  
“I’m heading back out. Got word of a werewolf not too far from here. But I expect reports, Dean. Find him and bring him back, do I make myself clear?”  
  
Dean nods, chin held up but still not able to make eye contact. “Yes, Sir.”  
  
He manages to hold on until Dad’s back out the door, lower lip trembling just slightly, but as soon as he hears the truck’s engine rev and Dad peel out of the driveway, one tear breaks loose, sliding down through the stubble on his jaw. He wipes it away and then he wipes the blood off his lip, not even sure which one he’s more upset about. Dean inhales deeply. He has to force himself to move, has to think way too hard about making his legs work, but eventually he wills them into motion and heads to his room. Grabbing a clean t-shirt and a few maps, Dean’s back out the door within minutes.  
   
===  
  
The landscape flying past the big, tinted windows is nothing but dust and sand and scruff and scraggly desert plants for miles and miles. It’s all beige, twisted and angry looking but hopelessly bland at the same time, and it fits nicely with the mood Sam’s in the entire way to Flagstaff. As the bus heads further north, though, that starts to change just a little. Things get greener, the sky gets bluer, and it’s still desert but it isn’t quite as bleak. They even start to pass trees as the bus rolls closer to its destination, and Sam starts to feel just a little bit less like his life is ending. He’s almost optimistic, like maybe, in time, things could actually be good from now on. What little he sees of the city looks nice enough, and even though there’s a big part of Sam that thinks he could never live in a world without Dean, there’s at least a small part of him that thinks maybe he could be happy here. Or, something close to happy, anyway.  
  
Once he steps off the bus, he starts walking and doesn’t look back. His heart is heavy and he’s lonely already, but he knows this is for the best. Maybe someday, he and Dean could meet up, get past this, and be brothers again. It may take years, but it’s a glimmer of hope that Sam clings to. He’d been smart enough to not spend all the money on the bus ticket, knew that he’d need some to get him through until he could figure something else out. And he’d also thought to bring his knife – the one Dean gave him last year for his birthday, the one that had been Dean’s favorite and that Sam had learned everything he knows about blades with. It was the only little piece of the  _before_  that he took with him, a small little piece of his brother that he could keep with him always. Other than that, Sam’s plan is to leave it all behind him and start over.  
  
There’s a small convenience store on the other side of the road from where he got off the bus and Sam takes the risk that some small, hole-in-the-wall dump like this won’t have security cameras on the off-chance that Dean – or worse yet, Dad – somehow manages to track him this far. He goes in to get some supplies, stealing what he can, thinking only of stretching what money he has, but pays for a few things just to make it look less suspicious. The bus station is on the outskirts of town, heavily-wooded forest right behind and Sam finds himself heading that way. Dad and Uncle Bobby both taught them how to survive outside, in the elements, and even on the slim possibility that Sam could pass for eighteen, he really doesn’t have enough money for even the crappiest of motels.  
  
He’s been walking for maybe an hour when he finds an old, and by the looks of it abandoned, cabin. It’s small, but out of the way, something that likely couldn’t be found unless someone was looking for it, and it’s perfect for Sam. Taking it as a sign that what he’s doing is right – even as his heart and soul scream that it’s the worst decision he’s ever made – Sam carefully makes his way toward the dirty windows, peering inside. Sure enough, there’s no one there. There is still furniture, ratty and old, but still someplace to sit and sleep that isn’t the ground, and Sam finds himself smiling slightly despite the impossible situation he’s found himself in.  
  
He’s just about to open the door when a rustling sound reaches his ears and he’s instantly on high alert, hand slowly sliding to the back of his jeans where his knife is tucked into his belt – just like Dean taught him. Withdrawing it as slowly as he can, Sam’s eyes scan the woods in front of him. He doesn’t see anything but he’s been a sort-of hunter long enough to know it doesn’t mean there  _isn’t_  something there just because he can’t see it. He tenses when there’s another rustle; head tilting to the side in confusion, though, when he hears a small, almost pained-sounding whimper. Just as he’s about to move forward, the bushes part and a golden retriever crawls out; dirty and way too skinny but not at all vicious or formidable looking. The dog’s belly is low to the ground, head and tail down and Sam feels a laugh bubble out of his chest. The poor thing looks scared to death and Sam feels a pang of sympathy along with feeling silly for being scared of this pathetic creature who probably couldn’t hurt a mouse.  
  
Approaching carefully, Sam holds out his hand, letting the dog smell him. When the dog decides Sam isn’t a threat, it perks up a little. It stands up from the crouched position and wags its tail, and Sam smiles. He can see the poor thing is bordering on starving and Sam’s lonely and starved for company, so he opens the door and whistles, coaxing the dog forward. He’s always wanted a dog; could never have one for obvious reasons, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity now. It feels strangely like an act of rebellion, but it also feels like the first step on his way to being independent.  
  
“C’mon,” Sam says softly, fingers rubbing the dirty fur behind the dog’s ear. He gets another tail wag and a lick across his palm and Sam lets them both into the cabin, locking the door behind him and making his way toward what passes for the kitchen in search of salt.  
  
Some habits die hard, he supposes.  
   
===  
  
Dean scours the town again in ever-widening circles, crossing into neighboring towns when he still comes up empty. At first, he’s completely frantic. Worry and strung-out emotions and leftover tension have him whipped into a frenzy that makes him constantly feel like he’s moments away from passing out. He calls Caleb and Pastor Jim on the off-chance that Sam might have gone to one of them; even going so far as to call Uncle Bobby even though they haven’t seen the man in a year – not since he pulled a shotgun on Dad and swore he’d shoot the next time he saw him. All three men promise to keep an eye out and let Dean know if they hear from Sam but Dean knows it’s pretty unlikely. Sam wouldn’t be dumb enough to run away to one of Dad’s friends.  
  
Dad calls more than once a day, which is unusual when he’s hunting but he was really, really mad that Sam had taken off – probably scared, too, just like Dean was – so Dean figures the situation calls for a little out-of-character behavior. Every day that passes, every mile that flies under the tires, every town he searches and comes up empty, leaves Dean feeling more and more discouraged and disheartened. He knows that the longer someone is missing, the less likely it is they’ll be found, but he just can’t give up. That’s his baby brother out there, his entire fucking  _world_ , and he’ll search until the day he dies. He’ll tear up the ends of the earth and move Heaven and Hell to find Sam, if that’s what it takes. And it’s starting to look like that  _is_  going to be what it takes.  
  
He’s got a picture of Sam that he keeps in his wallet. It’s a few years old, but Sam doesn’t look  _too_  much different in it. That bright, youthful face is still the same, he’s just a little taller now. Dean doesn’t even have to pretend to be heartbroken when he flashes the picture to everyone who will look, doesn’t have to lie or act to get the tremble into his voice or the sheen of tears in his eyes when he begs strangers to look and see if they’ve seen his little brother. No one has, and even though Dean was sort of expecting that, every time he hears the words ‘No, sorry’, he feels like he’s dying inside just a little bit more.  
  
Of course he avoids police and police stations; the last damn thing he needs is CPS getting involved in this shit. They’d have more than enough grounds to drag Sammy off to some crappy foster home based solely on the fact that he’s a fifteen-year-old kid who carries a knife around with him. But – as much as it pains him and makes him want to puke – Dean does check every hospital he comes across. So far, Sam hasn’t been in one, and if Dean were so inclined to be thankful for small miracles, that would be it. But he isn’t. It’s slow going and by the time a week has passed, Dean’s more than a little lost. He’s  _never_  felt so fucking helpless and useless and defeated. But still, he carries on. He somehow summons the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though every day that goes by makes it seem less and less likely he’ll ever see his little brother again.  
  
His perpetually bad mood isn’t helped by the fact that he only sleeps when he absolutely can’t drive anymore; never gets a motel, just curls up in the Impala with one of Sam’s hoodies that he left behind. Dad’s getting increasingly angry and frustrated as well. And even though he won’t admit it, Dean knows that he’s just as scared as Dean is himself. Sure, Dean may have taught Sam everything he knows but the kid is still only fifteen goddamn years old and he’s out there somewhere by himself where anyone or anything could get him, hurt him, kill him. The thought has Dean’s stomach threatening to reject his lunch. Even after everything, their fight and the drunken kiss and how strange and tense and off things have been between them lately, it’s still Dean’s job – his whole purpose in life – to watch out for Sammy, to take care of his little brother. And once again, he failed spectacularly.  
  
Ten days into his search, Dean decides New Mexico is his least favorite place on the planet, Florida be damned. He gives up on it and crosses into Arizona. Fresh state, fresh chance, Dean tells himself. He’s just not sure he believes it anymore.  
   
===  
  
The first thing Sam does is give the dog a bath. Once he’s clean, he doesn’t look nearly as bad. He’s still a little on the skinny side, so Sam calls him Bones. And, Sam’s pleasantly surprised to find out, he isn’t half-bad company. They eat junk food and play outside, running and playing fetch and at night, Sam curls up with him on the sofa and tries to pretend that he’s a suitable substitute for Dean. But no matter how awesome Bones is, there’s never anything in this world that can take Dean’s place, can hold a candle to his big brother and the more days that pass, the lonelier Sam gets.  
  
He misses his brother. Truthfully, he knew he would, but he didn’t really expect it to hurt so damn bad. But every time he replays that night in his head, the way Dean pushed him away, the look on his brother’s face, it strengthens his resolve. He’d rather not have Dean around than be with him and have Dean hate him. Sam honestly thinks that would be the worst thing he can think of. He spent his whole life being the center of his brother’s world, and he can’t imagine a life where Dean wouldn’t look at him like he was something rare and precious and irreplaceable. He’d rather never see Dean again than see Dean look at him like he’s disgusting and damaged and broken, like Sam knows he is.  
  
So instead of dwelling on Dean and on all the things he left behind, Sam tries to focus on creating a nice little life for himself. He doesn’t do too badly, all things considered. He cleans up the cabin as best he can – it was completely filthy when he found it so he dusts and washes the floors and gets rid of all the garbage left by whoever abandoned it. The lock is broken, so Sam fixes it, because even in the middle of nowhere he knows he can never be too careful. He lives mostly off Funyuns and whatever cheap, generic brand soda he can find from supermarkets and gas stations in the area. It isn’t the best diet, and it leaves him hungry a lot of the time, but it will have to do for now. Sam supposes eventually he’ll have to find some kind of job – the money he took from Dean won’t last forever and it’s not like he could hustle pool in a bar like Dean does; there’s no way he’d pass for twenty-one – but so far Sam’s trying not to think about that because he doesn’t have a clue what he would  _do_. It’s not like he has any skills that would lend themselves to some kind of nine-to-five, and besides, even a simple job at a fast food place or something would require things like a social security number and a street address, none of which Sam has.  
  
To keep from going insane with boredom, Sam explores the forest. He finds some paper in a garbage can by the highway, and he does his best to sketch out a map of all the pathways he finds – hiking paths, he assumes, although he doesn’t know for sure. He walks for miles every day, really just to have something to do, but Bones tags along behind him and once he gets used to it, he starts to really enjoy being surrounded by wilderness. It’s quiet here, but it’s the good, relaxing kind of quiet. Not the stale, tension-thick quiet like when Sam used to sit in a motel room by himself and wait on the edge of his seat for his father and brother to come home from a hunt; the whole time praying to a God that probably wasn’t even listening to bring them back in one piece. But being out in the forest, when it’s just him and Bones and the soft whoosh of wind through the trees, that kind of silence Sam likes.  
  
At night, he explores the cabin. Everything is old and a little rundown, but it’s more than Sam could’ve hoped for. All the wooden cabinets are stained with dark green paint, the furniture is covered in fake velvet and is completely tacky but comfortable enough, and the double bed in the bedroom even has sheets and a brown and white striped quilt and pillows. Sam feels a little skeevy about sleeping in someone else’s bed, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor. The lamps all work, and so does the tiny TV and the plumbing. The most interesting is a collection of postcards tacked up to the wall across from the couch. They’re colorful and full of different pictures of roads and towns and country landscapes – they all say Route 66 on them but they’re from all over the place; New Mexico, Oklahoma, Texas, even as far away as Illinois. Sam can’t stop staring at them. He examines each one until he could draw it from memory, wondering who it is that collected them and what it would be like to be on a road trip for  _fun_  instead of tracking some supernatural being that’s ripping people to shreds along the way.  
  
For a while, Sam can’t work out why someone would just up and leave this place, especially with still-full bottles on the shelves and dishes in the cupboards and clothes in the closet. But then he starts to think maybe it isn’t quite as abandoned as he thought it was – maybe it’s someone’s hunting cabin and they only come here on weekends or something. He starts sleeping with a knife under the pillow because he’s got a constant, sinking feeling that at any minute, someone will barge in and demand to know who Sam is and why he’s sleeping in their bed. No one does, though, so Sam tries not to think about it.  
  
After about a week, during one of Sam’s walks he discovers a campsite. There are a few trailers and a few tents, lots of families with little children running around, and for longer than he’d like to admit, Sam just stands out of sight in the trees and watches them. They all look so carefree and so  _happy_ , and Sam can’t help the feelings of longing that swell up inside him. Sometimes, he’s really jealous of Dean. He knows it must’ve been horrible when Mom died and Sam supposes he should be grateful that he doesn’t remember it, but Dean got to have four whole years of just being a normal little kid, part of a normal, loving family. Sam never had that. The earliest memories he has are of Dad leaving them with Uncle Bobby for weeks at a time, of Dean being the one who taught him how to tie his shoes and throw a ball and ride a bike instead of Mom or Dad like it should have been, of constantly pestering Dean with questions about what Dad did when he left them and where he’d go and never getting any real answers. The kids running around with their scraped knees and their hands sticky from ice cream and their mothers calling after them to be careful, that should have been Sam’s life. Sometimes he really hates that it wasn’t.  
  
In front of the trailer closest to where Sam’s standing, there are two little boys, maybe about five and eight years old, respectively. There’s a girl too, she’s maybe eleven, but it’s the boys Sam can’t take his eyes off of. They’re playing some kind of game that Sam knows he’s seen before but can’t remember the name of – tossing big, colorful balls at one smaller white one to see who can get the closest – and the older boy is trying to show the younger one how to do it. He keeps dropping the ball, it must be heavy, and the older boy keeps picking it up and letting him try again. The girl seems to be getting frustrated with waiting for them; as Sam watches she gives up and flounces away, back into the trailer. But the boys stay, and the bigger one keeps patiently helping his brother until the smaller boy finally gets the hang of it. The look on his tiny face when he does is so bright and excited it makes Sam smile, and the look on the older one’s face is so full of pride that it makes Sam ache.  
  
Dean used to look at him like that.  
  
Sam’s pulled away from his thoughts by what sounds like the snapping of a twig somewhere behind him, and he spins around quickly, senses immediately on high alert and ready in an instant to fight if he has to. But all he sees is a girl, probably about his own age, with curly brown hair and freckles on her nose like Dean. She looks startled for a second, probably because of how fast he whipped around to look at her, but then she narrows her eyes as she considers him and seems to decide pretty quickly that he isn’t a threat.  
  
“What are you doing?” she asks loudly.  
  
“I … I was just …” Sam splutters, failing to come up with an answer that she might believe without running off to her parents and telling them there’s a strange boy spying them.  
  
“Is your family camping here?”  
  
“No,” Sam answers, a second before he realizes he probably should have said yes.  
  
“Then why are you here? Are you a murderer or something?”  
  
“No!” Sam says defensively, caught off guard by how brazen she is about it. “I just … I got lost, on my way home. But I know where I am now, so … I’ll just go.”  
  
He steps around her and starts walking away, annoyed with himself for getting caught lurking on the outskirts of a family campground. The last thing he needs is someone calling the police on him. But then the girl calls after him, and Sam stops walking abruptly at the sound of her voice.  
  
“Is this your dog?”  
  
He turns back around, groaning a little. He’d completely forgotten Bones was with him, and now the dog is rubbing up against the girl’s legs as she tentatively pets him on the head.  
  
“Bones!” Sam says, patting his thigh. “C’mon, boy, we’re going home.”  
  
“Wait!” she calls again, and Sam sighs and looks over at her.  
  
“What?” he asks exasperatedly.  
  
“Where do you live?”  
  
Sam frowns. “Why?”  
  
“Because we come camping here every year, and I know there aren’t any houses around here.” She puts her hands on her hips, jutting one out to the side and fixing him with a hard look. “You’re some kind of freak child-molester, aren’t you? You were watching those little kids.”  
  
“I was not!” Sam protests.  
  
“Were too,” she argues. “I saw you.”  
  
“I …” Sam sighs again. It’s his fault, he shouldn’t have let his guard down enough to let someone sneak up on him like she did, but even still, he doesn’t understand why she won’t just let him leave. She’s really pretty, now that he has a chance to look, and she’s wearing nice clothes and a locket around her neck that looks like real gold, which means she really has no business with someone like Sam, especially if she thinks he’s some kind of sicko who likes spying on groups of small children. “One of them reminded me of my brother, that’s all.”  
  
“Where’s your brother?” she asks immediately.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam answers honestly. “Look, I gotta go, okay?”  
  
“You don’t know?” she repeats, raising her voice so he can hear her even as he’s turning to walk away. “Are you homeless or something?”  
  
“No, I’m not homeless. Why are you asking me so many questions?”  
  
She doesn’t say anything, and Sam’s curiosity gets the better of him. He turns back around again, and when he does, she’s staring at him with a calculating look on her face.  
  
“Your clothes are all dirty, you don’t know where your brother is, and you live in the woods,” she says, counting off on her fingers, “but you aren’t homeless.”  
  
“Yeah? So?”  
  
“You ran away from home, didn’t you?”  
  
Sam closes his eyes, a wave of nerves rolling through his stomach. If she tells her parents about this, he’s screwed. “Yeah, I did. And I really gotta go now, so goodbye.”  
  
“I’m Kate,” she says, completely ignoring his comments about leaving.  
  
“Sam,” he replies, without meaning to.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Sam. I hope you don’t die or anything. This kid from my school ran away last year, and he starved to death or something. Everyone was really sad about it.”  
  
Sam honestly doesn’t have a clue how to process that information, much less how to respond to it, so he just says, “Okay, um, thanks,” somehow managing a small, slightly disturbed smile, and then he pats his leg again and starts to walk away, Bones dutifully following behind him.  
  
“We’ve got lots of food,” Kate yells after him as he goes. “If you’re hungry later, you could stop by.”  
  
Sam hears her, but he doesn’t stop walking.  
   
===  
  
Sam has absolutely no intention of going back to the campsite, ever, but the next afternoon, he sets out on another walk and his legs carry him there without his brain having any say in the matter. He doesn’t even realize he’s walking in that direction until he’s already there, and then he just rolls his eyes and wonders why he insists on getting himself into these kinds of situations. It’s Amy all over again. He doesn’t know anything about Kate, where she’s from or what her family’s like or even what she herself is like, and for all he knows she could be just as much of a monster as Amy was. But he’s intrigued by her, even though he doesn’t want to be. In a way, she reminded him of Dean – the way she was so brash and tactless and just said exactly what was on her mind without a second thought. There are times when Sam wishes he could be like that.  
  
He finds the trailer that belongs to her family fairly quickly; they’re all sitting in a circle in lawn chairs, playing some kind of trivia game that’s perched on a little fold-out table in the middle. He manages to get her attention without anyone seeing, and she makes an excuse to leave after a minute and sneaks over to where he’s hiding behind the camper.  
  
“I was hoping you’d come back,” she says, and then she grabs his hand and tugs him away down a path he hasn’t explored yet. “C’mon, I wanna show you something.”  
  
She leads him down the narrow, overgrown pathway for a minute or two, and then they emerge in a clearing next to a river and a small waterfall. It’s really pretty, Sam has to admit, even though he’s still uneasy about being alone with a girl he just met and probably shouldn’t trust. He’s a little gun-shy, maybe, after Amy. He’d felt something for her, a spark or an electric charge in his gut, and it was scary and new but it felt  _good_ , and then it all blew up in his face. Kate seems different, though. She isn’t shy and sweet like Amy was, she’s bold and confident and a little frightening, and before Sam’s mind has a chance to wrap itself around what’s happening, she’s grabbing him and kissing him, her lips pressing into his and moving in this strange, squishy way that sort of feels good and not at the same time.  
  
“You ever kissed anyone before?” she asks breathlessly.  
  
“Once,” Sam answers. Twice, is the real answer, but he doesn’t say that because he doesn’t want to think about it.  
  
“It’s more fun if you’re lying down,” she says, more or less shoving him down into the dirt and climbing on top of him. She lies right over him, blanketing his body with hers, and kisses him again.  
  
Sam has no idea what’s happening or what he’s supposed to do, he’s just frozen and his heart is beating hard enough that he’s sure she’ll be able to hear it, which is so utterly mortifying that his cheeks are heating up and his breath is quickening in a way that has almost nothing to do with the way Kate’s trying to stick her tongue down his throat. He lets her kiss him for a few minutes, though, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do, and it’s messy and uncomfortable and not at all like what he always imagined a kiss should feel like. He’d hoped his kiss with Amy was just weird because it was his first, but this one isn’t any better. And her leg is pressing down into his crotch and he’s starting to get hard because, hello, something is touching his dick and that’s what always happens, but he doesn’t  _like_  it. It doesn’t feel right or good or anything, and eventually Sam works up the courage to gently push her off of him.  
  
“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning at him and using the back of her hand to wipe at her shiny lips.  
  
“Nothing, I … I should go,” Sam says, his face heating up in shame as he stands back up and pretends to dust himself off to cover up the fact that he’s adjusting his pants.  
  
“Go where?” she scoffs. “I thought you ran away from home.”  
  
“I did.” He swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “I just … we shouldn’t be here. Your parents are gonna come looking for you, I don’t wanna get you in trouble. I’ll see you around.” He won’t, this time he  _really_  has no intention of coming back, and this time he means it.  
  
“Oh God, you’re gay, aren’t you?” she asks, without pretense, and Sam bristles and decides he really, really doesn’t like this girl.  
  
“No, I’m not,” he says firmly.  
  
“It’s okay if you are,” she continues, standing up and crossing her arms. “My cousin is, and I know it’s kinda weird but it’s not, like, illegal or anything. Just tell me the truth.”  
  
“I said I’m not!” he shouts, and he isn’t. He doesn’t want to be with a boy, he just wants Dean. He hates it, but it seems to be sticking around, even when a pretty girl has her tongue in his mouth. If that doesn’t make it go away, Sam doesn’t know what will. He mutters a half-hearted goodbye at Kate over his shoulder, and hightails it back to the cabin.  
  
And if he immediately jumps into the shower and wraps his hand around his dick, coming a few hurried strokes later with Dean’s name on his lips and Dean’s face swimming behind his eyelids, well, Sam’s just glad no one but Bones will have to know about it.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean tries really,  _really_  hard to keep up his positive new outlook, but three more days into his search and Arizona turning out to be as hopeless as New Mexico really has him losing what little faith he has left. It’s like Sam just vanished without a trace, as overused as the saying is in those douchey cop shows Dean despises. And with the things that Dean knows are out there that can make that happen – supernatural threats and, sometimes even worse, not-so-supernatural ones – he’s getting more and more desperate and that helpless, hopeless feeling gets bigger and bigger as days and miles go by. It’s like what he imagines having an ulcer would feel like; this constant, dull burning in the pit of his stomach. He was always taught to trust his instincts and, much as it makes him want to either cry or shoot something, his instinct is telling him Sam’s long gone.  
  
There’s a bus station and a small convenience store on the outskirts of Flagstaff. Logically, Dean figures that wherever Sam went, he had to have taken a bus. He isn’t old enough to rent a car, and he’s too good to steal one. But every terminal he’s checked so far, he’s come up empty, so Dean isn’t sure why this one should be any different. Heart heavy and not expecting anything different than he’s gotten for two damn weeks, Dean pushes himself out of the car and into the station. The girl behind the counter is cute, eyes wide and a soft pink blush staining her cheeks when Dean walks up, and she’d totally be the kind of chick he’d at least flirt with normally but he just doesn’t have it in him right now. Instead, he robotically holds out the picture of Sam and asks if she’s seen him.  
  
She takes the picture, tracing one finger over it, before looking up at Dean with a small smile. As dangerous as he knows it is, hope flares in his belly – in his heart.  
  
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I think I did see him. He was older than this, but I’m pretty sure.”  
  
“You did?” Dean says quickly. “Where? When?”  
  
“I was outside on my break, like, I don’t know, two weeks ago? And I was watching the people get off the bus. I remember looking at him and thinking how sad he looked. How someone so young could look so … I don’t even know. Lost. Looked like something really awful had happened. I felt bad for him. He was just a kid, you know?”  
  
Dean’s breath catches in his throat. This is the first lead he’s had in fourteen fucking days and he almost doesn’t even know what to do with it at first. Eventually, he hears himself ask, “Did ya see where he went? Did he get on another bus?” He just prays that she says no to that last one.  
  
“Um.” She pauses, biting down softly on her bottom lip as she obviously tries to remember. “I don’t think he got on another bus. I didn’t really see, though,” she says after what feels like an eternity. “But I do remember him heading over to the store.”  
  
“Thank you,” Dean breathes. “God, thank you so much.”  
  
He doesn’t even wait to hear her response, just runs out of the station and over to the store beside it. There’s an older man stocking the shelves, he has kind blue eyes and Dean’s hands are trembling when he holds out the picture of Sam again.  
  
The guy frowns a little, eyeing Dean kind of warily but then he nods. “Yeah. He’s been in here a couple’a times in the last few weeks. Always getting junk food and soda.”  
  
“Do you ever see where he goes? Which direction he comes from or heads back toward?”  
  
“Sorry, son,” the man says regretfully, shaking his head no.  
  
The small bit of hope inside Dean dies a fiery death. Sure, he knows Sam’s in the area but he has no way of finding him. Flagstaff isn’t exactly the kind of podunk town they’re used to staying in. It’s a good-sized city, and Sam could be anywhere. Dean can’t really put up posters or get Sam’s picture plastered on milk cartons. And he still can’t go to the police. It’s a huge relief, an unbearable weight off his shoulders to know that at least Sam is alive, but at the same time it’s almost more hopeless than before. To know he’s  _so_  close but that there’s still a good possibility he’ll never find Sam, especially if Sam doesn’t want to be found. It’s almost more than Dean can handle. He feels that familiar scratchy feeling in his chest like he always does when the emotions he tries so hard to contain get a little too close to the surface.  
  
Dean thanks the man for his time and information and heads back outside. There’s a dense forest behind the store, and Dean finds himself staring into the trees, wondering just what the hell to do next. He’s so lost in his own head that at first, he thinks the tall, skinny form he sees moving deftly through the trees is some kind of cruel hallucination brought on by exhaustion and guilt. But then he sees a mop of floppy chestnut-colored hair and too-long arms and legs and his heart stutters and stalls to a full stop like an old motor. He’s moving before he even realizes it.  
  
“Sammy,” he whispers, breaking into a full-out run toward who he’s sure now is his little brother. “Sam!” he cries out, tone loud yet harsh, emotions threatening to overflow again like they have been constantly since Sam left.  
  
Sam’s head snaps in his direction and Dean’s close enough now to see his eyes widen in shock, his entire body locking up tight as he comes to a stop a few feet away. He just stares for a minute, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing any more than Dean can.  
  
“Dean?” he finally murmurs, softly, with a definite note of disappointment in his voice that Dean chooses to ignore.  
  
Dean doesn’t really think, he just keeps moving, damn-near slamming full body into his brother. His arms wrap automatically around Sam’s shoulders, nose buried in his hair, inhaling that unmistakable Sammy-scent that he’s been missing like a vital organ for the last two weeks. Sam’s completely still, every muscle held tense but Dean doesn’t even fucking care because Sam’s alive and he’s there and Dean’s never been so grateful for anything in his fucking  _life_. He tightens his hold on his brother, squeezing Sam so hard it’s got to be at least a little painful, but he doesn’t care about that either. His heart is going too fast, blood rushing too deafeningly in his ears, for him to concentrate on much else than words like  _Sam_  and  _found_  and  _okay_.  
  
“Thank fuckin’ God,” he whispers, inhaling his little brother’s scent one last time before he pulls away just enough to look Sam over. He keeps both hands clamped down on Sam’s shoulders, though, irrational fear coursing through him that if he lets go Sam will just up and disappear again. He doesn’t look hurt, maybe a little thinner, a little dirty and worse for wear, but there’s no visible blood or cuts or bruises.  
  
“Are you okay?” Dean asks hoarsely, needing to make sure even though he doesn’t see anything wrong.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam whispers, eyes locked steadily on a spot near Dean’s sternum, resolutely refusing to meet his eyes. That means something, Dean knows it does, but he adds it to the already sprawling list of things he doesn’t give a shit about at the moment.  
  
Dean nods, squeezing so his fingers dig into Sam’s muscle. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. C’mon, then, let’s go. Car’s over here.”  
  
Dean finally lets go of Sam’s shoulders, but grabs one of his elbows, ready to lead him toward the car. But Sam – stubborn little bastard that he is – yanks his arm away and digs his heels in.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“No,” Sam says louder, still not looking Dean in the eyes and Dean’s relief is slowly being replaced by anger – the anger that’s been simmering just under the surface but was hidden by the stifling fear while Sam was missing.  
  
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘no’?” he grits out, grabbing Sam’s elbow again, granted probably a little harder than he should but he’s suddenly beyond pissed. “That wasn’t a request, Sam. You’re gettin’ in the fuckin’ car and you’re doing it  _now_.”  
  
Sam finally raises his head, a defiant tilt to his chin. That petulant little brother look Dean knows so well is all over his face, and his jaw is clenched. “No,” he repeats, stronger, firmer. “M’not comin’ with you, Dean. I … I want to stay here. I’m staying here. On my own.”  
  
Dean takes a step closer, tightening his grip on Sam’s boney elbow so much that Sam flinches visibly. Dean doesn’t feel bad about it at all. He’s so angry his head is spinning.  
  
“Get your fuckin’ ass in the fuckin’ car, Sam,” he hisses, leaning into his brother’s space. “You’re fifteen goddamn years old. You don’t get to make that decision.” He pauses, inhaling deeply in a lame attempt to get himself back under control. Somehow, Sam’s always managed to bring out both the best and the worst in him. “Trust me, you  _really_  don’t want me to call Dad right now. You think  _I’m_  pissed? You’re gonna need a freakin’ ambulance by the time Dad gets done with you.”  
  
It’s an empty threat – Dad would never hit Sam and they both know it – but it has the desired effect. Sam’s eyes widen just a bit, his face going a little pale, and he shakes his head minutely.  
  
“I … I need to go get my stuff,” he whispers softly. “It’s just about a mile.”  
  
“Fine. Let’s go, then.”  
  
“You don’t have to – ” Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off with a scoff and a sneer.  
  
“You’re crazy if you think I‘mma let you outta my sight again.  _Ever_.” Licking his lips, he rubs his free hand across the back of his neck, anger still burning hot in his veins. “C’mon. Lead the way.”  
  
They walk in complete silence, Sam’s head bowed the entire way, until they get to a small, rundown cabin. Sam shoots a look over his shoulder, jerking his chin toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
Dean nods, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. “You got three minutes.”  
   
Sam goes to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, and Dean holds up one hand, cutting him off.  
   
“I know damn well you can pack your shit in three minutes. S’not like you’ve been here long enough to pick out curtains. Get goin’.”  
  
Sam nods, head hanging once again as he trudges toward the cabin, disappearing inside. There is a part of Dean that feels bad for how miserable Sam looks, and even worse for how much he’d obviously been hoping he’d never see Dean again, but mostly he’s still just relieved that he found him. Sam will get over this, eventually. Dean’s used to living with him when he’s pissed about something – seems like it’s more often than not lately Sam’s throwing a bitch-fit about something or other. He’s a teenager. Dean remembers how shitty that can be, even though he’s sure he was never half as bad as Sam is sometimes. And if Sam really hates Dean this much after what happened before he took off, well, Dean can probably learn to live with that too. It’ll hurt like hell, but that’s yet another thing Dean’s more than used to.  
  
Dean’s watching the door intently but aware enough of his surroundings in case Sam tries to slip out the back door, if there is one. He stiffens when he hears rustling in the bushes, hand immediately going to the pistol tucked in his waistband, just in case. But then a girl, probably around Sammy’s age, comes out of the trees and Dean slowly lets go of his Colt, folding his arms across his chest again. She’s cute for her age, although a little too wholesome looking to be Dean’s usual type, and Dean narrows his eyes as she gets closer.  
  
“Where’s Sam?” she asks, tone far too suspicious for Dean’s liking. “And who’re you?”  
  
Dean’s eyes widen, kind of taken aback by her brazen attitude. Usually girls get shy around him, especially younger ones. “I’m his brother,” Dean answers tensely. “And we’re just leavin’.”  
  
She narrows her eyes, like she actually doesn’t believe him, and shakes her head a bit. “I wanna talk to Sam.”  
  
Dean scoffs again, wondering just who the hell this chick thinks she is, and he’s about to ask her just that but Sam picks that exact moment to stumble out the cabin door with his backpack and duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyebrows shoot up into his bangs and he looks a little freaked out as he glances back and forth between the girl and Dean. She turns to Sam immediately, taking a few cautious steps toward him like she’s approaching a wild animal.  
  
“Sam?” she asks softly, shooting a glare at Dean over her shoulder.  
  
“Hey,” he answers. “I … sorry I never came back.”  
  
“Are you okay?” she adds pointedly, as if Dean’s the intruder in this situation, not her. Dean sees red.  
  
“Y-yeah. M’fine. He’s my brother, Dean. I … I’m goin’ home.”  
  
She nods, smiling sadly, reaching out one small hand and grabbing Sam’s, squeezing it as if to say goodbye. Dean’s blood freaking boils, those  _not right_  feelings for Sam making him furious at the sight of someone else touching his baby brother. Touching him like she has a right to, like she  _knows_  him. If she weren’t a girl, Dean would have slugged her by now.  
  
“C’mon, Sam,” he grits out, daring Sam to contradict him so he knows Sam won’t.  
  
And like Dean knew he would, Sam gently pulls his arm away, not even looking her way once as he scrambles over to Dean’s side. Dean clenches his jaw, hand once again gripping Sam’s elbow too hard as he all but drags Sam back through the woods toward the car. He doesn’t quite manage to keep from shooting a smirk over his shoulder at the girl, smugly satisfied that Sam still chose him even though they’re not exactly on the best of terms right now. She glares at him again, but hey, Dean still won. He doesn’t even feel bad about it. She was probably a bitch anyway.  
   
===  
  
Sam slumps in his seat, curled up in the corner as much as his tall frame will allow, his forehead pressed against the window. Dean’s torn; he’s so indescribably happy and grateful to have his Sammy back, but he’s angry about him taking off in the first place. Add to it the jealousy and guilt about Sam’s little girlfriend, and he’s just so lost. And tired; completely exhausted, really. They’ve been driving in tense, strained silence for  _hours_  and Dean knows he needs to call Dad and let him know that he found Sam and he should check them into a room so he can let Sam get cleaned up and so they can both get some well-needed sleep, but he’s almost afraid to stop and do any of it. As big and spacious as the Impala is, the air is stifling and Dean doesn’t think it’d be much better in a motel room either. And he’s afraid of what will happen when they do stop. The anger’s gone back to burning just underneath everything else, but it’s still undeniably there, and at this point all it would take is Sam saying or doing something  _Sam_ -like and Dean would probably just snap.  
  
He heads north, and keeps going until they cross the border out of Arizona before he finally starts looking for a motel. Logically, he knows it isn’t the state’s fault that Sam ran off, but illogically, Dean never wants to see another cactus ever again. Sam still hasn’t said anything. He’s just staring out the window, and Dean can’t see his face – except for the brief reflection when they pass a streetlight – but his shoulders are so tense Dean just knows he’s doing that brooding thing he’s so prone to, and he can’t help but sigh. He wants to be mad at Sam, for taking off and for being a petulant little teenage nightmare, but Dean knows it isn’t really Sam’s fault. It’s Dean’s. He’s fucked this up so badly, from the moment he left Sam for those two days after their argument. Looking at it that way, Dean can hardly blame Sam for running away, because technically, Dean ran away first. Sam’s always followed Dean’s lead, and this time was no different.  
  
Sam tenses up even more when Dean pulls into the parking lot of the most decent looking motel he can find, finally shooting Dean a wide-eyed, questioning look. Dean just shrugs, throwing the car into park. He keeps one eye on the car – on Sam – while he gets them a room, totally not trusting that Sam won’t try to sneak off again. He’s probably going to be even more psychotically overprotective now, never letting Sam out of his sight. He’s not sure he always likes that about himself, but apparently it’s been necessary all along, seeing as the first time Dean turned his back, Sam wound up in another state.  
  
He pauses just outside the office once he’s paid and picked up the key, pulling his phone out of his pocket reluctantly. He’s put this off long enough. Eyes still on Sam, Dean inhales deeply as he dials and the line rings. Dad’s voice is gruff and brisk when he answers and for just a split second, Dean lets his eyes slide closed as he says the words he’s been dying to say for two weeks.  
  
“I got him, Dad.”  
  
Dean swears that he hears Dad sigh in relief before he clears his throat, tone right back to tense when he asks, “Where was he?”  
  
“Flagstaff.”  
  
“Arizona?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
“Shit. Has he said anything? Do you know what the hell he was thinkin’?”  
  
Dean inhales deeply, his stomach churning unpleasantly. He knows exactly why Sam left – although he won’t think about it, won’t even admit it in the safety of his own head – but there sure as shit isn’t any way he’s going to tell Dad  _any_ of that. “No,” Dean rasps. “Not yet. We just stopped for the night. I’ll find out.”  
  
“Make sure that you do, Dean. Head on back home as soon as you can. I’m about a week out still. I’ll call.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Dean answers dutifully before hanging up. He almost laughs at Dad calling the house in Santa Rosa  _home_. It isn’t. Nothing has ever been home except the Impala, not since Lawrence. And he’s also sure as hell not going back to that place. It’s not like he left anything behind that he needs to pick up, except for a bunch of sticky, uncomfortable memories he’s convinced he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to block out. When Dad calls again, Dean will just have to tell him they’ll meet him somewhere else. He isn’t great at standing up to his father, but he can do it if he needs to.  
  
Sam jumps when Dean opens the passenger’s side door and if he wasn’t still so pissed he’d laugh his ass off. “Get your shit. Let’s go.”  
  
Sam’s shoulders slump but he hauls himself out of the car and follows obediently behind Dean to their room. Dean leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Sam drop his duffel on the bed furthest from the door and then shove his hands into his pockets, his head bowed.  
  
“Go take a shower. Clean yourself up,” Dean orders.  
  
He almost doesn’t expect Sam to listen to him, but Sam does; nodding and digging through his bag for some clean – or at least clean _er_  – clothes before heading to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam takes longer than Dean thinks is strictly necessary in the shower – probably trying to avoid what he damn-well knows is going to happen when he gets out. While he waits, Dean rummages through Sam’s duffel and takes back whatever money is left from what Sam took from him. It isn’t much, but Dean’s going to find a much better place to hide it this time in case Sam ever gets another stupid idea into his head. Eventually though, the door swings open and Sam shuffles into the room, hair still wet and hanging down in his face, his cheeks pink from the heat of the water.  
  
Dean moves to stand in the middle of the room, mere feet separating him and Sam. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with his arms crossed, staring at Sam and hoping Sam will just launch himself into some kind of explanation so Dean doesn’t have to be the bad guy here. He hates it when he has to play the parent role with Sam. Dean wants to be Sam’s friend, his brother, the person he can trust with everything and talk to about anything. He doesn’t want to be the one lecturing Sam and telling him not to do things and giving him hell when he messes up. That’s supposed to be Dad’s job, but more often than not, Dad isn’t around to do it, so it falls on Dean. Along with everything else. When Sam doesn’t speak first, just rubs the towel over his hair and avoids Dean’s gaze, Dean sighs and bites the bullet.  
  
“Anything you wanna say to me?”  
  
“Not really,” Sam answers, his words calmer than the expression on his face would suggest he actually is. “You?”  
  
“Cute,” Dean says sarcastically. “But, see, I just spent the last two weeks tearing up the entire Southwest looking for you, along with gettin’ my ass handed to me by Dad because apparently it’s somehow  _my_  fault that you threw a bitch-fit and took off, so why don’t we try that again?”  
  
Sam doesn’t reply this time, he just glares at Dean from under the curtain of his wet hair, and Dean’s blood starts boiling again.  
  
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Sam?!” bursts out of his mouth before he can stop it. “How could you do that?! What did you think was gonna happen when I woke up and you were gone? You had to know I’d be freaking out! Doing what we do? God, I was going out of my mind, thinking something had taken you! Thinking you were hurt or in danger somewhere and I wouldn’t find you in time, thinking you were  _dead_! How could you do that to me?! Are you really that selfish? What the fuck did I ever do to make you hate me that much?”  
  
“What d’you want me to say?” Sam says, finally looking up at Dean and narrowing his eyes a little as he squares his shoulders. “That I’m sorry? ‘Cause I’m not, and you weren’t either when  _you_  disappeared for two days and came back beaten to hell and covered in blood.”  
  
“That’s different,” Dean argues.  
  
“Why?” Sam asks shortly, eyes narrowing even further.  
  
“Because …” Dean falters, because he really doesn’t have a good answer for that.  
  
“Because what? Because you’re older? Because you know how to take care of yourself, and I’m some helpless, pathetic little child who’d fall apart without his  _big brother_  around to watch out for him?” Sam supplies, the mocking quality to his voice slicing right through Dean. “In case you were too busy dragging me off like a caveman to notice, I was doing fine without you. I had a place to sleep, I had food and water, I even had salt lines across every entrance  _and_  I carried a knife with me everywhere. So maybe you’re not mad that I left, maybe the real reason you’re pissed off is because you’re realizing I don’t need you anymore.”  
  
“That – that’s not – ” Dean splutters, but Sam cuts him off.  
  
“Yeah, actually, it kinda seems like it is. And besides, we both know why I left, so don’t you dare pretend like you don’t.”  
  
That takes Dean by surprise. He honestly wasn’t expecting either of them to mention that ever again. He thought that would just fall under the category of things they don’t talk about, like Mom, or Dean’s various hook-ups, or that time he walked in on Sam jerking off when Sam was only twelve. But Sam’s got this determined look on his face, like he’s already decided he isn’t going to back down from this, and that throws Dean. Also, this was supposed to be him being mad at Sam, he doesn’t know how it managed to get flipped around so damn quickly. Sam sort of has that effect on him.  
  
“Sam, you just … you don’t take off like that. You just don’t,” Dean says, trying to change the subject even though he knows it won’t work. “We’re family, man. Whatever else is going on, we’re always supposed to stick together. We’re all we’ve got, you know that. And yeah, I left too, and you’re right, I shouldn’t have. But that was different. I wasn’t really  _leaving_ , I just needed to clear my head. I was always planning on coming back, I didn’t run away.”  
  
“And that’s supposed to make it better?” Sam cries, his eyes quickly starting to shine with tears Dean can tell he’s trying really hard to hold back. “How did you think I was gonna feel when  _I_ woke up and  _you_  were gone? You can dress it up all you want, but you did the exact same thing I did! I would never have run away if you hadn’t done it first! And it’s my fault, I know it’s my fault, I never should’ve done … what I did. But, God, the look on your face, like I was something disgusting and you never wanted to see me again! Like you hated me! What the hell else was I supposed to do?”  
  
Dean closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He really,  _really_  doesn’t want to be talking about this, but Sam seems insistent on it and Dean can’t keep changing the subject forever. “I … alright, look. You were drunk. Okay? That’s all it was. And it’s fine, Sammy. It was just a mistake. Yeah, it freaked me out a little but I just … I wasn’t expecting it. That’s all. But you were drunk. You were upset because I was hurt, and you weren’t thinking, and I get that. I don’t hate you, okay? I could never hate you. You were just drunk.”  
  
“Stop saying that!” Sam shouts, his eyes wild, his voice bordering on hysterical. He balls up the wet towel and hurls it at Dean - it thumps against Dean’s hip but he doesn’t move. “I wasn’t just drunk!”  
  
“Sammy,” Dean pleads. He’s not even sure what he’s pleading for, exactly. For Sam not to say what Dean thinks he’s about to say. Because if he does, that means Dean was right. It means he’s committed the absolute worst sin he possibly could – he’s corrupted his little brother, damaged him, put something inside him that’s dirty and wrong and ruined all that sweet innocence. But Sam, because he’s Sam, says it anyway, and Dean’s stomach feels like it drops about a foot when he does.  
  
“I love you,” he whispers brokenly.  
  
Dean feels every word like a wrecking ball to the gut. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, how to  _feel_  about that, but whatever he does feel, it isn’t good. The second the words are out of Sam’s mouth, his eyes go wide and horrified like he wishes he could go back in time and stop himself from letting those words slip out, and his face just drains of any trace of color – he goes so white for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to be sick. And then Sam turns around, reaching a hand out to steady himself against the wall, shoulders shaking. Probably no more than a minute ticks by, but to Dean every second slides into the next like molasses. His heart’s beating into his throat, constricting his airways so he can’t breathe – can’t see, can’t  _think_  – and his jaw is starting to throb from clenching it so hard.  
  
“You’re confused,” he says eventually, flinching when Sam lets out this horrible, wretched sob, and turns back to Dean with glassy, red-rimmed eyes and ruddy cheeks streaked with tears.  
  
“I’m not,” he says, a prominent waver to his voice that makes it sound like he has to force the words out one by one. “I’m fucked up. Something inside me is  _broken_ , really, really bad. But I’m not confused. I know it’s wrong, I know you’re probably grossed out and angry and wish I’d never even been born, but I’m not confused.  _That’s_  why I left. Because there’s something wrong with me, and you shouldn’t have to live with a little brother who’s a  _freak_.”  
  
Dean doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t make a conscious decision to do it; his legs start moving before his brain registers that it told them to. All he knows is, since the day Sam was born, it’s cut Dean up inside to see him look so sad. And to hear him say all those horrible things about himself, so obviously full of shame and self-loathing and a bunch of other terrible emotions he should never, ever have to feel – it’s more than Dean can take. He crosses the room in a few quick strides and, completely on instinct, grabs Sam’s thin, trembling body and wraps it up in his arms. Sam clings to him, probably also just instinct; throwing his arms around Dean’s back and gripping tight handfuls of his shirt. He buries his face into Dean’s shoulder, crying softly, tears soaking through the fabric.  
  
Dean strokes his damp hair, shushing him gently, and he’s desperate to make Sam believe him when he says, “You’re not a freak. I couldn’t ever,  _ever_  wish you’d never been born, I don’t want you to think that ever again. And I’m not mad at you, okay? I swear, Sammy.”  
  
“You should be. You should never wanna see me again,” Sam chokes out between uneven, shuddering breaths, and something inside Dean breaks.  
  
It just hurts too much to hear Sam say things like that, to hear in his voice that he really believes it. Right down to his core, Sam thinks he’s broken; that there’s something really, irreversibly  _wrong_  with him for feeling the same thing Dean himself has felt for a lot longer than he cares to think about. And Dean knows exactly how painful it is to hate yourself that much. Logically, Dean still knows it isn’t right. They’re brothers and Dean isn’t sure if it’s actually fully illegal but there’s for sure a rule somewhere that says it isn’t okay to feel this way about your brother, much less actually  _act_  on it, but Dean can’t hold back anymore. Not when Sam is so upset and there’s something he can do to fix it.  
  
He uses his grip on Sam’s hair to tug his head back gently, and then he leans down and kisses him. Like the first time, something foreign and unfamiliar and really scary twists in Dean’s chest, but it’s good too. In a terrifying way. Sam’s lips taste like the salt from his tears, and that just spurs Dean on to the point where his conscience is taken completely out of the equation. He presses a little harder into Sam, slowly licking at the seam of his lips, asking Sam to let him in, and with a soft hum, Sam does. The first slide of their tongues together is more electric than the most wild, passionate sex Dean’s ever had, and any tiny little bits of nagging doubt Dean may’ve still had disappear. He kisses Sam quickly but thoroughly, and Sam kisses back sloppily, not a whole lot of technique but that just reminds Dean that Sam doesn’t have much experience with things like this and the thought is so damn  _hot_  he can’t think straight. Where only a minute ago the idea of sullying Sam’s innocence was horrifying, now Dean’s never wanted anything so much.  
  
Sam makes another noise, this sweet little sound like a whine stuck halfway inside a moan, and Dean’s knees almost give out. Sam’s hands grab at whatever inch of Dean he can reach, just as crazy and desperate for it as Dean is, and Dean’s lips feel bruised with how insistent Sam’s are against them. He swirls his tongue around Sam’s again, sliding the hand that isn’t tangled in Sam’s hair down his spine, until he gets to the small of Sam’s back so he can pull their bodies closer together. It isn’t until Sam’s hips bump into Dean’s and he feels something solid against the top of his thigh that Dean realizes he’s hard too, his head spinning with arousal and fear and desperation and a whole bunch of other things he doesn’t have nearly enough blood cells in his brain to figure out. Instead of trying, he lets desire take over and he all but shoves Sam backwards toward the bed.  
  
When the backs of Sam’s knees hit the mattress, Dean crouches down enough to wrap his arms around Sam’s legs, just under his ass, picking him up off the ground and tossing him down onto the bed. He doesn’t wait for Sam to stop bouncing before he swoops down and kisses him again, covering Sam’s only slightly smaller body with his own and rocking his hips down into Sam’s. The brushing of their erections, even through layers of cotton and thick denim, has Dean so hard he’s dizzy.  
  
Sam shudders, but at the same time he pushes at Dean’s shoulder and says, “Wait, you … you want this?”  
  
Dean lifts his head up enough to see Sam’s eyes, and they’re wide and unsure. It’s on the tip of Dean’s tongue to say ‘yes’, but it brings up too many questions and doubts and moral objections that should probably be stopping Dean from giving in to this – to what he’s wanted for so long – so Dean does what he does best; he shoves the uncomfortable thoughts away. He can’t think about all that right now, because if he does, it’ll force him to stop. And, God help him, he doesn’t want to stop. He wants Sam, wants him so much that it’s overriding the fact that he shouldn’t. So he just smiles at Sam and captures his lips again in an even more brutal kiss.  
  
He feels crazy, there’s this unignorable buzzing just under the surface of his skin like thousands of bugs are crawling all over him, and there’s something fierce and possessive swelling up in his chest that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. As he plunders Sam’s lips ravenously, he has the most overwhelming urge to  _claim_  him, to mark him and mess him up and make it so he’ll never be able to belong to anyone but Dean for the rest of his life.  
  
Grinding his hips down again, the hot stiffness in Sam’s pants rubbing deliciously against Dean’s – and  _shit_ , Sammy feels  _big_  – is so fucking fantastic that Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to come in his pants like the virgin he hasn’t been in years. He kisses Sam so intensely he tastes blood, but Sam bucks up into him and his fingers dig into the muscles in Dean’s back so Dean knows his brother has no objections. And then, thinking of this squirming, hard, eager body beneath his as his  _brother_  is so dirty and bad and wrong and goddamn  _hot_  that sparks of pleasure burst through Dean’s whole body like firecrackers.  
  
Sam comes first, with this broken, breathless little whimper. His body tenses up and his eyes slam shut and Dean feels heat and wetness between them, soaking through Sam’s clothes. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen or heard something so arousing in his life, and he drops his head down onto Sam’s shoulder, mouthing over the sweaty skin and rutting mercilessly into Sam’s thigh until his own orgasm burns low in his belly, exploding through his veins like a hurricane. He paints the inside of his boxers with warm, sticky come, and even then he can’t help licking at Sam’s slightly open mouth as if he isn’t completely boneless from one of the best orgasms of his life.  
  
Eventually, the way his hips are still gently rocking into Sam’s stops feeling good; Dean’s spent cock tired and over sensitive against the roughness of his underwear, so he rolls off Sam and collapses exhaustively onto the mattress beside him. His vision is still a little blurry around the edges, and his whole body is warm and sleepy and thrumming with that dull, pleasant feeling of being satisfied. For a minute, Dean lets himself drift in the bliss of it and forgets everything else. But then he makes the mistake of glancing over at Sam, and that’s when it all comes crashing down.  
  
Sam’s hair is messy, sweat making it stick to his forehead; his cheeks are flushed and splotchy and his lips are bright red, slick with leftover spit and kiss-swollen. He’s still breathtakingly beautiful, even all mussed up; like a debauched angel, and it hits Dean like someone dropped an anvil on him that  _he_  did that. Only, suddenly it doesn’t feel like such a good thing.  
  
“I …” he croaks, his voice weak and scratchy, but he has no idea what to say so he doesn’t bother trying. He swallows thickly and closes his eyes, rubbing his hand over his face as he tries to push away all the thoughts that are creeping back about how many different kinds of wrong this is and all the reasons he’d spent so long resisting doing exactly what he just did.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Sam sniffles beside him, and when Dean opens his eyes again, Sam’s just lying there looking completely miserable. That, more than anything, is what makes Dean reach for him – tugging him in close and wrapping his arms around Sam’s trembling shoulders like he used to when Sam was just a kid and it was okay to hold him like this. It doesn’t help, having Sam’s body pressed up beside Dean’s, but Dean doesn’t know what else to do but lie there together and drown in the enormity of the mistake they just made. Sam tries to pull away after a moment, struggling a little to free himself from Dean’s grasp, but Dean just holds him tighter and eventually Sam gives in. He settles back against Dean’s side, but when Dean cranes his neck and leans down to get a look at Sam’s face, there are tears in his hazel eyes.  
  
The adrenaline is still pulsing through Dean’s veins too much to be sure, but he thinks maybe there are tears in his own eyes too.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam is all too aware of Dean’s every move, every breath, every blink. It’s distracting and confusing, comforting and painful all at the same time. He wants to sink down into the mattress and Dean’s warm embrace, bury himself in the love and comfort and safety that his brother’s arms have always provided. He wants that more than he’s ever wanted anything. But it’s impossible to now. They aren’t good anymore, all those things Dean used to mean to him. They’re bad things now, things that only remind Sam of all the things he shouldn’t be feeling - of how messed up he is. He can’t relax, can’t turn off his brain. And he’s pretty damn sure this is what it feels like to have his heart breaking wide open. Even more than before he left. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible, but it’s true.  
  
Because now he knows. Dean may not have said it out loud, but he didn’t have to. Sam has spent his whole life studying his big brother, wanting to be just like him in every way. He knows him, knows that he feels the same way Sam does even if he can’t admit it. Or maybe won’t admit it. Sam doesn’t blame him, it’s not like it was easy for him to accept the way he feels about Dean. He still hasn’t fully accepted it – part of him thinks maybe he never will. But Dean feels it too, that much Sam knows for sure, and along with that knowledge comes the fact that he also knows Dean regrets it. And that’s worse. There’s no way Dean would give in to this crazy, intense, terrifyingly complicated thing between them again. Sam doesn’t blame him for that either. He regrets it too, in a way. It was everything he’s spent so long wanting, but there’s a big, big difference between wanting it in secret – only letting himself think about it in the dark where the thoughts can’t hurt anyone but Sam himself – and actually acting on it.  
  
Then there’s the possibility that Dean might have only done it because it’s what Sam wanted and he’s spent his whole life giving Sam whatever he wanted. That thought hurts more than anything, but it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility. Dean has a hero complex, Sam’s known that since before he even knew what those words meant. Sometimes it’s like Dean almost enjoys having to sacrifice parts of himself to make Sam happy or keep Sam safe. Sam sniffles again, nuzzling under Dean’s jaw despite himself, despite the situation. He’s hurt and alone even though his brother is right there, and the only one who’s ever been able to make those kinds of feelings go away is suddenly the one making him feel that way. Sam just wants Dean to make it better, but Dean is the problem and Sam’s left feeling so hopeless it’s like a gaping hole in his chest.  
  
Neither of them really sleeps that night; at least, Sam knows that he doesn’t and he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t either. But either way, it’s still too damn early when the sun peeks through the crack in the curtains where they don’t quite meet in the middle and Dean gently pulls away from him. Dean doesn’t say anything or even look at Sam, just heads into the bathroom and a few moments later, the shower starts up. Sam just lies there, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing in circles so quickly it’s making him seasick.  
  
He doesn’t know how the hell they’re ever going to come back from this. Things were already so tense and strained before and now it’s only going to be worse. And as stupid as it is, Sam briefly considers running again. Not that he’d get far, he knows that. He knows that Dean would chase him again, too – drag him back and chain him to the Impala if that’s what it took to keep Sam around. No matter what happens between them, no matter how shattered their relationship is now, Dean will always chase after him. But Sam doesn’t know what else to do. It’s been such a long time since things have been anything close to good between him and Dean; Sam’s honestly not sure he’ll be able to handle what it’ll be like now.  
  
Dean doesn’t take nearly long enough in the shower for Sam to compose himself or even begin to figure any of this out. Honestly, Sam doesn’t know if he’ll ever figure it out. Dean falters for just a moment when he steps out of the bathroom fully dressed and his gaze locks with Sam’s, and no matter how much it hurts to see the misery and regret in his brother’s familiar eyes, Sam can’t seem to make himself look away. Maybe, deep down, he just wants Dean to see how broken he is, how much this fucking hurts. But the pain in Dean’s eyes that he’s sure matches his own isn’t really any consolation and much more of a hollow victory than Sam thought it’d be.  
  
Eventually, he makes himself get up off the mattress, ignoring the sticky, mostly dried mess in his underwear and heads into the bathroom himself. He showers quickly, washing away the come and sweat and tears and trying – but failing miserably – to wash away the feeling of his brother’s touch and kiss, the memory of the look in those intense eyes, the sound of him moaning when he came against Sam’s hip. The water isn’t hot enough and the soap isn’t nearly strong enough to rid Sam of anything deeper than the physical reminders of the night before. By the time he’s done, there are tears burning behind his eyes again but he absolutely refuses to let them fall. He’d been weak enough as it is last night, and again this morning; he won’t let himself be that way again. He honestly never thought Dean would be someone he’d have to worry about breaking him and hurting him like no one ever could, but now that he has, Sam at least won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.  
  
It’s no surprise when Sam comes out of the bathroom and Dean’s not there. He knows that Dean didn’t leave him, there’s no way he would have spent the last two weeks looking for Sam then abandon him the day after finding him. Sam glances out the window and finds Dean already in the car, waiting. He takes his time packing up his things and getting ready to go, only partly with the intent of pissing Dean off. Mostly, he’s just stalling, because the last place in the world he wants to be right now is cooped up in the car with his brother. Dean just sits there in the Impala and even from a distance, Sam can see his jaw clenched, his fingers curled around the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. Sam wastes as much time as he can, but eventually his bag is packed and there’s nothing left to do but face the music. Inhaling deeply, steeling himself for a truly miserable drive to wherever the hell they’re going, Sam heads for the car and settles himself into the passenger’s seat.  
  
Dad calls while they’re on the road – resolutely not talking to each other, which is all kinds of strange because even when they’re mad at each other it isn’t all that often they can’t find something to talk about – and tells Dean that he’s heading to Florida, Orlando specifically, to deal with a banshee and he wants them to meet him there. Sam’s isn’t all that thrilled with the idea, and not just because he doesn’t want to have to deal with another hunt so soon. For however pissed Dean was – is – Dad’s going to be even worse. And he’s going to notice the tension between them. The man may be absent from their lives more often than not but he’s aware enough to notice when things are strained between his sons. Sam just hopes that he’ll chalk it up to Dean still being upset about Sam running off. It’s the truth, anyway; it just isn’t the whole truth.  
  
Dean drives until he can’t anymore and then he just keeps going. It’s more than obvious that he’s beyond exhausted, but he refuses to stop. Sam can sort of understand, he’s not exactly looking forward to being in a motel room again with Dean – not that it’s any better being trapped in the damn car, but it still feels a little safer than a room with a freaking bed and all the millions of unspoken things between them. By the third time Dean swerves into the other lane, Sam’s about to break the mutual silence and demand that they find somewhere to crash for the night, but thankfully Dean seems to realize that he really needs to stop and Sam doesn’t end up having to say anything. He finds them a cheap, no-tell motel and leads Sam into the room.  
  
As much as Sam doesn’t want to talk things to death for once in his life, the silence is really starting to get to him. So many times during the day, he turned toward Dean, mouth open to say something, anything, but one look at his brother’s still clenched jaw and he’d snap his own mouth closed again. The thing is, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know how to talk to Dean.  
  
They go to bed without a word, Dean barely sparing him a second glance and Sam can’t help but wonder if this is the way it’s going to be for the rest of their lives – if he’s lost his brother forever because of this. He spends another restless night tossing and turning, not really sleeping but not really awake either, and from the rustling of sheets from a few mere feet away, Dean’s not faring much better. When Sam drags himself into the bathroom in the morning, he barely recognizes the face staring back at him through the cracked mirror. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy even though he wasn’t even crying, and the skin underneath them is a light shade of purple that makes it look like he’d had double shiners a few days ago. He looks exhausted and miserable – which makes perfect sense because that’s exactly how he feels.  
  
Dean actually looks up at him when he comes out of the bathroom and his eyes soften a bit, and for the first time since Dean pulled him into his arms after it happened, Sam sees just a hint of his big brother again. Dean gives him a small, tentative smile and the band around Sam’s heart loosens some. For a minute, he lets himself hope that maybe they’ll be okay. That maybe, with time, they can get past this. To his surprise, Dean pulls him into a brief, one-armed hug, patting his shoulder a little, before pulling away. He even ruffles Sam’s hair before he drops his arm. As stupid as it is, the small gesture has emotion building in Sam’s chest again, his throat tight and painful. He wants to cry again, even though he won’t. But Dean’s at least making an effort, so maybe Sam can too.  
  
Once they’re back on the road, Dean drives straight through to Florida and Sam’s heart pounds in his chest when they pull up next to Dad’s pick-up truck at the motel he gave them directions to over the phone. Sam turns to Dean – his default setting when he’s scared and overwhelmed – and Dean gives him a crooked grin, grabbing the back of his neck and squeezing just a bit.  
  
“It’ll be alright, kiddo,” he says softly. Sam doesn’t believe him for an instant but he appreciates the gesture. And something blooms warm in his chest for just a second at the fond nickname – just a few weeks ago, Sam would’ve been annoyed at Dean calling him that, but now it makes him feel like he really is a kid again and Dean’s back to being the big brother who can fix everything.  
  
“He’s gonna kill me,” Sam whispers, hating how small and weak he sounds.  
  
“No he won’t. He’s your dad, he was just worried about you. We both were.” Dean brushes his thumb over the skin behind Sam’s ear. “C’mon, might as well get it over with.”  
  
That’s all really easy for Dean to say, he’s not the one about to face the firing squad. But he’s right, probably, so Sam inhales deeply and nods, forcing himself from the car. Dad’s sitting at the table when they walk in, newspapers and messy notes and his journal spread out over it like so many other times in Sam’s memories. He looks up when the door closes softly and if Sam’s not mistaken, there’s a brief look of relief that passes over his face – like he hadn’t really believed that Sam was okay until he saw it with his own eyes. But it doesn’t last long. He sets aside his papers, elbows resting on the table as he looks briefly between Sam and Dean, and then focuses solely on Sam.  
  
“You wanna tell me what the hell you were thinkin’, runnin’ off like that, Sam?” Dad asks, even tone betraying just how pissed he really is. It’s not a question, either; no matter what Sam comes up with, it won’t be good enough and he damn well knows that. But he can’t just ignore it either.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Sam answers dutifully, head held high, shoulders squared even though inside he’s scared shitless. He can feel Dean next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough that Sam picks up the familiar scent of leather and coffee and Old Spice; the smell of Dean, of home, and it’s slightly comforting. “I wasn’t thinking. Won’t happen again.”  
  
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again,” Dad says tensely. “I trusted that you were old enough to know better. That Dean would be able to keep track of you.” He gets up, pacing around in front of the small table. “Damn it, Sam. We were worried sick and we had no idea what happened to you! Anything could have happened! With what we do, the life we live, you can’t pull shit like that! You can’t just take off whenever you want to, that’s not how this works. If I’m gonna leave you and Dean on your own I have to be able to trust that you’ll have each other’s backs. You’re not a child anymore. It’s time you grew up.”  
  
Sam can’t help but narrow his eyes as anger swells in his chest. Considering Dad’s saying that he’s not a child anymore, he’s sure as hell treating him like one, and Sam’s about to say so when Dean nudges his arm softly.  
  
“Sam. Don’t.”  
  
Dad sort of glares at both of them, says, “Dean,” in a stern voice, but Dean shakes his head just a little.  
  
“Dad, please,” he says imploringly, and Sam watches in slight confusion as his dad and brother just stare at each other, exchange a few meaningful looks, and then Dad sighs and turns back to his pile of research. Sam isn’t completely sure what just happened, but whatever it is, it seems to have effectively defused Dad, so Sam’s not going to question it.  
  
Thankfully, Dad launches into the details of the case after that – a banshee and Sam really couldn’t care less if he tried, but he knows that he’s on thin ice as it is, so he tries to pay attention; tries not to focus on Dean’s hands or lips and remember what they felt like on his own lips, on his body. He blinks owlishly, shaking himself out of his stupor when he finds himself staring. This is going to be harder than he thought.  
  
A little while later, Dad leaves them alone to go check out the crime scene and interview a few witnesses and Sam doesn’t miss the way he pulls Dean aside and speaks low enough that Sam can’t hear. He doesn’t miss the pointed glance in his direction either, just before Dad walks out the door. Sam scoffs, rolling his eyes, which is apparently the wrong thing to do.  
  
Dean looks at him exhaustedly, shaking his head. “Really, Sam? We’re back five fuckin’ minutes and it’s starting already?”  
  
“Don’t,” Sam grits out.  
  
“No, you don’t. He has every right to be pissed at you, and worried that the second our backs are turned you’re gonna run again. Hell, I can’t say that I’m not worried about it myself.”  
  
Sam glares at Dean, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “Yeah, well. With the way things are, I can’t exactly say I’m not freakin’ tempted.”  
  
Dean’s inhales deeply, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “That’s really not funny, Sam.”  
  
“Good. M’not jokin’,” Sam answers evenly. He licks his lips, chewing on the bottom one for just a second before letting the flesh slide free. “Are we just supposed to ignore what happened?” he asks softly after a moment. It’s not that he really wants to talk about it, but he kind of thinks they have to if they have any hope of getting past it.  
  
“We’re not talking ‘bout this,” Dean growls, predictably.  
  
“We have to, Dean!” Sam half-shouts. “Jesus, you can barely even look at me! And you spent almost two days not saying a single word to me! We have to fix this!”  
  
“No. We’re not talking about it,” Dean repeats. “We made a mistake. We put it behind us and we move on, just like every fuckin’ other thing.”  
  
“I can’t do that. I know it’s messed up, I know that. But I can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen, Dean. Please. Talk to me,” Sam ends on a whisper, emotion threatening again, his throat painfully tight as almost overwhelming sadness tugs at his heartstrings.  
  
“I … I can’t, Sam,” Dean says softly, miserably. And for all that Sam bitches about Dean constantly insisting on calling him Sammy, it’s times like this that he really misses it. “We just … I think we need some time apart.”  
  
Even though that’s the exact reason Sam ran in the first place, hearing those words from Dean tears his heart in two, but at the same time makes him furious all over again. “Seriously? You chase after me, follow me all the way into another state just so you can grab me and drag me back practically at freakin’ gunpoint, and now you’re gonna be the one to run? Again?”  
  
Dean licks his lips, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m not runnin’ away, Sam,” he says eventually. “I just … we need some time to get over this. And I think that it’d be best if we aren’t around each other right now.” He shakes his head, eyes pleading. “I’ll be back, you know I will. This family means more to me then that, I couldn’t ever just ditch you and Dad. I just need some time, okay?”  
  
Sam clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring. There’s really nothing he can say at this point and he damn-well knows it. But still, he can’t resist being the bratty little brother. “Fine, Dean,” he grinds out from between clenched teeth. “Run away from this, be a freakin’ coward. ‘Cause that worked so well the last time, right? Really solved all our problems, didn’t it?”  
  
Dean glares and turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and the door slamming shut behind him. Sam’s knees give out the second he’s gone, and he hits the mattress behind him. Logically, he knows that Dean hasn’t left yet, won’t risk leaving until Dad comes back, but it still feels oddly final. And a few hours later, Dad is back and Dean’s gone. Sam’s not sure what kind of excuse Dean came up with that got Dad to let him go, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing that means anything is that Dean abandoned him, again. It’s happened so many times lately, Sam’s almost getting used to it.  
   
===  
  
Dean’s honestly surprised that it was as easy as it was to get Dad to agree to him taking off for a few days. But he kind of thinks that Dad realizes just how hard Sam going missing was on Dean and can appreciate that Dean needs a few days on his own. The big brother and peacemaker in him is a little worried about leaving Dad and Sam alone together – it’s a very real possibility that the two of them will spend the whole time tearing each other a lifetime of new ones – but Dean tries not to think about that. Sam’s not a little kid, he can handle himself where Dad’s concerned. Usually he can handle himself a lot better than Dean can; it’s been years since Sam’s let Dad push him around. And if it means he’ll need to glue the three of them back into something resembling a family when he gets back, well, he’ll worry about that when it happens.  
  
He doesn’t really have a destination in mind, just starts driving; figures if he drives fast and doesn’t stop much, he can probably get through five states in as many days and get his shit together enough that he’ll be able to be in the same room with his brother without wanting to throw him down on the nearest hard surface and repeat what happened the other night – and all the other dirty, bad, wrong things he wants to do to Sam. Dean’s mostly accepted the fact that he wants it, that he’ll probably  _always_  want it, there’s just something about Sam that gets under his skin and sparks desires in him that no one else ever has. But he can’t act on it again, and that’s the part he needs to get under control.  
  
Honestly, he should have known that Sam would want to talk about it and he should have known how much it would hurt Sam when he walked away again. But he just can’t be around him, not while it’s still so fresh, not while he can almost swear he still feels the pressure of Sam’s lips against his own, see Sam writhing beneath him, hear the broken little moans and hitches of breath. Dean doesn’t even know if Sam’s ever done anything like that with anyone else – he assumes probably not, which just makes everything worse. The first orgasm Sam had because of someone else’s touch other than his own should so  _not_  have been with his older brother. It should have been with some sweet, shy girl his own age, someone as unsure and nervous as Sam, someone he could fumble his way through it with and then feel awkward about it afterwards. It shouldn’t have been Dean; Dean shouldn’t have been the one to take that innocence away from him. The fact that he did, while being, unfortunately, ridiculously  _hot_ , is also really, really bad. Dean still can’t help feeling like he ruined Sam somehow, like he took something away from him that Sam can’t ever get back.  
  
He just needs to get out, clear his head, so he can come back and be the responsible older brother again. He needs to get his head on straight and figure out how to deal with this huge, unspoken thing between them. Mostly, he needs to figure out what he’s going to say to Sam to make him understand why it can’t ever happen again.  
  
Hell, maybe he just needs to get drunk and get laid.  
  
He gets out of Florida quickly enough, and then he gets on the I-75 and works his way through Georgia, Tennessee and Kentucky. Dean drives until he can’t each day and sleeps in the car; same as he did when he was tearing up town after town looking for Sam. He makes it all the way to Indiana before he stops completely. He’s not sure why, just figures that it’s enough distance and as much as he loves his baby and Metallica, he kind of needs a break from both. There’s a bar on the corner where he stops in a town called Cicero, just north of Indianapolis. Dean’s always been more comfortable in small towns than big cities. The place is cramped and dark and anonymous, just the way he likes it. He walks in, orders a beer and a shot, smiling at the perky blonde bartender with a wink and a nod when she sets them down and heads off to serve someone else.  
  
Dean looks around the smoke-filled room, cataloguing everyone and looking for threats and exits like he does on instinct, when he spots  _her_. She’s fucking gorgeous, dark hair and eyes, tan skin and curves in all the right places. She’s probably a little older than Dean is, but he’s never been picky about age. She’s at a table with a few other girls that Dean assumes are friends and she’s downing shots like a champ and laughing, bright and brilliant and Dean thinks she’s the perfect distraction, just what he needs to get his head out of his ass and his mind off hazel eyes and floppy hair and a dimpled smile. He catches her eye, giving her his best panty-melting smirk and a quirked eyebrow; the look that’s always gotten him whatever – whomever – he wanted. She just laughs and turns back to her friends, though, effectively ignoring him. For a moment, he’s stunned. But he’s also intrigued and more interested than before and a little impressed.  
  
He plays a few games of pool just for the fun of playing and gets steadily drunker and drunker, always keeping an eye on her. She’s still drinking and laughing, and a few times, he catches her looking at him. She gets up and heads for the bathroom and he figures this is his chance to catch her away from her friends and make his move. As soon as she comes out and is heading back toward her table, he steps in front of her, giving her his best smile again.  
  
“Hey. M’Dean,” he drawls.  
  
“Lisa,” she responds, tone a little husky from the shots and sexy as hell and Dean feels heat surge in his stomach. Oh yeah. This is exactly what he needs.  
  
“Let me buy you a drink.”  
  
Lisa looks up at him, plump bottom lip trapped between her perfect teeth and for a moment, he thinks she’s going to shoot him down. Instead, she steps closer, one hand sliding up his chest. “How ‘bout you and I get outta here instead?”  
  
Dean can so get on board with this plan. It’s all happening quicker and simpler than he thought it would, but hey, easy women are his specialty.  
  
Lisa practically purrs when she sees his baby, fingers trailing over the sleek black finish and Dean’s brain effortlessly supplies the perfect mental image of him laying her out on the hood and fucking her stupid. She slides into the passenger’s seat and Dean focuses on the blood and excitement pulsing through his veins and resolutely doesn’t think about how that’s Sam’s seat and how wrong it is for someone else to be there. Luckily, she lives close and he’s barely got the door closed behind him before he has an arm full of the beautiful brunette, her arms around his shoulders. His hands instantly slide down her sides, curling under her ass and lifting her up. She moans low in her throat and wraps her legs around his waist and he carries her through the house, knocking into walls and a table, trying not to trip over anything as she practically attacks his lips. It’s wet and sloppy and she’s so small and delicate, fitting in his hands perfectly, and it’s crazy arousing and exactly what Dean wanted.  
  
They don’t talk much but Dean finds out – accidentally – that she’s a yoga instructor and the bendiest chick that he’s ever fucking met. They fuck on every available surface and there’s tequila and whiskey and he spends the next three days drunk and naked and blissfully not thinking about anything but Lisa and alcohol and fantastic sex. He wakes up Monday morning in her loft, sheets sweaty and rumpled and wrapped around his naked hips, to the delicious smell of coffee and bacon. So, yeah, Lisa’s pretty much the most awesome chick  _ever_. Even better, she doesn’t seem particularly surprised when he says he’s got to go. She just kisses him slow and deep and dirty and they go one more round in the kitchen, plates and food shoved onto the floor as they grab at each other and Dean lets himself get lost in the softness of her body one last time.  
  
He leaves feeling sated and clear-headed and like maybe he was wrong about all the stuff with Sam – maybe what Dean  _really_  wants is a quality girl like Lisa. Maybe his one night stands with trashy diner waitresses confused him into thinking any kind of real relationship was impossible, maybe that’s what had him turning to Sam, to the one person he could have some kind of connection with that wouldn’t end the moment the hunt was over. But it doesn’t last. As soon as Dean gets back into his car and glances over at the empty seat beside him where Sam should be, he remembers why he had feelings for Sam in the first place. And it had nothing to do with convenience. As much as he doesn’t want to think about it, he still finds himself doing nothing  _but_  thinking about it as he drives back to Florida, back to Sam.  
  
Sure, spending the weekend with Lisa was awesome – unexpected, but awesome nonetheless – but in the end, it was just sex. Really amazing, sweaty, bendy sex, but just sex. And that’s all it would ever be with anyone else. There’s no room for love or a relationship or happily ever after. And he’s okay with that, honestly, that’s the whole point. That’s the way he wants it to be. Lisa was great, but leaving her was easy. Leaving any girl he’s ever been with has been easy. Leaving Sam though … that’s enough to break Dean just  _thinking_  about it. He’s actually amazed he was able to walk out that door five days ago, and he knew he was coming back. When Dean thinks about how it would feel knowing he’d never see Sam again? To never hear his voice, never see the way his eyes light up when he smiles, never feel as incredible as he does when he gets to be the protective big brother, never be the one to make Sammy laugh? He can’t breathe.  
  
But, in the long run, it doesn’t matter. Sam may think Dean is what he wants, but he’s fifteen goddamn years old, there’s no way he could really know what he wants. Hell, Dean’s going on twenty and still has no clue. Well, that’s not completely true. He knows what he wants, he just also knows he can’t have it.  
  
Except that he  _could_. Sam willingly gave himself over to Dean that night and Dean knows that he would again in a heartbeat if Dean would just let himself take. But Sam’s always wanted normal and safe and being with Dean doesn’t equal normal and safe. And Dean can’t take, not from Sam. He’s supposed to take care of Sam, keep him safe, teach him, guide him, tease him, be there when he wants to talk but still give him a hard time about it; all those things older brothers are supposed to do. Dean’s already fucked up enough, he can’t hurt Sam anymore than he already has. He just can’t. He’d never forgive himself. Even if he did give in again, weeks or months or years from now, Sam would realize it’s all been a mistake. He’d realize Dean isn’t really what he wants, that he wants a life that isn’t a hundred different kinds of fucked up like it would be if Dean let them have each other like that, and by that point Sam would be too messed up and damaged from the whole thing to ever be okay again. Dean can’t do that to him.  
  
Dad and Sam have just finished up the hunt when Dean gets back to Florida. Surprisingly, they haven’t killed each other; in fact, they seem to be getting along okay and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. The only thing that looks any different than when Dean left is that Sam’s cast is gone and the cut on his head is finally starting to fade away. Sam still won’t talk to him, even when Dean tries to ask about the case or the weather or anything he can freaking think of. Dean knew Sam would be pissed but this is kind of ridiculous. They follow Dad back into Georgia where he dumps them in another crappy apartment and takes off to help Caleb on a job a few states over. Dad doesn’t even ask if Dean wants to go and Dean doesn’t offer; they’re both still worried that Sam’ll take off again the moment their backs are turned.  
  
Sam lasts with the silent treatment for two whole days before he breaks.


	6. Chapter 6

In retrospect, Sam probably doesn’t handle being alone with Dean again as well as he should have. Giving his brother the cold shoulder and refusing to speak to him or even look at him for almost forty-eight hours is childish and petty and it doesn’t solve anything, but Sam doesn’t know what else to do. Even being in the same room as Dean is painful, and it’s like Sam’s body goes into some kind of lockdown mode to protect itself. He shuts down completely. Not only does he not speak to Dean, he doesn’t speak at  _all_. And the rest of him operates like safe-mode on a computer – reduced down to its basic functions. He eats when he’s hungry and sleeps when he’s tired, he watches meaningless TV and goes for a run and reads a book without actually retaining a single word. He just exists, like an exoskeleton with nothing inside. He’s empty, drained of all good feelings and even bad feelings and left with just hopeless, gray nothingness.  
  
It’s a horrible way to be, but the alternative is acknowledging Dean, and in turn acknowledging everything Dean used to mean to him and everything that happened between them and everything they could have been if things like that  _ever_  worked out in Sam’s life, and he can’t do that. It hurts too much.  
  
Eventually, Sam will get over Dean. He knows he will, even if it seems impossible at the moment. He’ll go on with his life; he’ll forget how good Dean’s lips felt against his, and how warm and strong and sure Dean’s hands were on Sam’s body, and how perfect and amazing and right it felt to have Dean pressing him into the mattress. Wanting him, loving him. Making him feel all those bright, shiny, terrifying things that Sam’s never felt before. The idea that anyone else could ever make him feel the way Dean did is almost laughable, but he’ll still try. Sam knows the mechanics of sex, he knows very well that he’ll just have to find some girl somewhere like Dean does and go through the motions with her, and it’ll be fine. But it won’t be the same. That much, Sam knows for sure. He just has to find a way to convince himself that he’s okay with it. Because the truth is, after everything? Sam doesn’t even want Dean anymore. It would be good, amazing, but it isn’t worth the heartache. Dean won’t give Sam what they both want from each other – which Sam does understand the reasoning behind, even if he isn’t happy about it – and Sam’s not going to beg him for it. He’s devastated, but he isn’t pathetic.  
  
The worst part of everything, actually, was how aware Sam and Dad both were of exactly what Dean was off on his little trip doing, and how secretly approving Dad seemed of it and that now, Sam feels even more like Dean is the golden boy and he’s the ugly duckling who won’t ever be the kind of son Dad wants him to be. Dean may have left under the pretense of ‘clearing his head’, but Sam knew that was a lie as much as Dad did. Dean wanted to get laid. Dad doesn’t know  _why_  he wanted that so badly, not like Sam does, but all three of them knew exactly what was going to happen when Dean took off in the Impala with his collar popped and AC/DC blaring out of the speakers. Dad had smiled fondly and said, “Your brother just needs some space, Sammy,” – which apparently means a weekend of strange pussy, and the look on his face was like he was watching Dean graduate from medical school or something. His healthy, strapping, virile young son, off to do what all good, red-blooded American men are supposed to do. Sam wanted to puke. And, regardless of the fact that he really didn’t need  _another_  reason to feel inadequate next to Dean, he has a new one anyway.  
  
When Sam finally gets tired of the forced silence that’s consumed his life for two days, Dean’s in the kitchen of their latest makeshift home, making them something for lunch – or maybe dinner, Sam’s not actually sure what time it is. He sits down at the table, and when Dean looks up, Sam makes himself meet his brother’s eye for the first time since he got back. Dean looks unsure for just a second and then he smiles. It’s a tentative smile, like he’s worried Sam might be tricking him or something, but it soothes Sam a little inside anyway. At least Dean isn’t mad at him. Sam hates it when Dean’s mad at him.  
  
“Hi,” he says quietly, like he’s greeting a stranger. It’s a foreign concept, things being as unsteady between him and Dean as they are right now.  
  
“Hey Sammy,” Dean answers, with a real smile this time, and Sam tries not to let it sting the wounds in his heart that still aren’t completely healed. “You hungry?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “A little.”  
  
“Mac and cheese,” Dean says, with a slight grimace and a nod toward the steaming pot on the stove. “Not exactly gourmet.”  
  
“Sounds good.” Sam tries to smile back, although he’s not sure he quite manages it.  
  
“You, uh … well.” Dean frowns just a little, whatever he was going to say trailing off into a barely audible sigh, and then he looks away again and goes back to stirring the pasta.  
  
They descend into tense silence again, and Sam lets a few minutes tick by before he can’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.  
  
It isn’t what he meant to say, or even what he wanted to say, but it’s what comes out. There’s a part of him that still wants to scream at Dean, to shove into his face exactly how much he’s hurt Sam and how much it sucked that he took off again and how Sam’s insides still feel slashed to shreds and he isn’t sure if they’ll ever manage to sew themselves back together. But maybe there’s a bigger part of him that just wants his brother back, even if it means swallowing all that pain and pretending it isn’t there. He does get where Dean’s head is at, why Dean pulled away from this, even if it hurts. Sam can’t blame Dean for being freaked out over what they did when he’s still so freaked out himself. And if the end result is Dean being his best friend again, Sam can shove his feelings down and bury them where they won’t be able to get free. He’s almost sure of it.  
  
Dean looks up slowly and frowns deeply. He looks sad and confused for just a moment, and then he just looks relieved. “You don’t need to be sorry. But, uh … for what it’s worth, I am too.”  
  
Sam nods. He swallows over the uncomfortable lump in his throat, but he makes himself hold Dean’s gaze. He wants to ask sarcastically if Dean had fun on his road trip, he wants to demand Dean tell him exactly how many girls he slept with while he was gone, and if any of them came close to making him as happy as Sam knows he could, but he doesn’t. Partly because he’s afraid of the answer, but mostly because he’s done with feeling like crap over all this. It’s too hard. He’s putting everything behind him, like Dean said they should in the first place, and he’s doing it right now, before either of them get any more hurt than they already have.  
  
“Wanna watch a movie or something? I think  _Die Hard_ ’s on tonight.”  
  
This time, Dean’s smile is big and bright and real, and infectious. “Yeah. Sure. Go set it up, this is almost ready.”  
  
Sam nods again and gets up, but before he can leave the room, Dean stops him. He walks over to Sam in quick strides, and then he pulls Sam into his arms for a brief hug. It only lasts a few short seconds, but it has Sam’s stomach instantly in knots. Dean’s arms around him, strong and safe, and Dean’s heat and Dean’s smell swirling around in Sam’s brain like a drug. He’s blinking back tears by the time Dean pulls away, ruffling Sam’s hair affectionately before going back to his cooking, and Sam wanders over to the TV in a daze. He knows Dean meant the gesture to be reassuring, but it had the complete opposite effect. It just made everything worse. Sam feels like his senses are in a blender; twisting and tangling around each other until he doesn’t know which way is up anymore. And he was a fool to think he’ll get over Dean. He never will, ever. It takes all Sam has left in him to keep from crying.  
   
===  
  
Once Sam broke his silence, things went mostly back to normal for while. Or, well, as normal as things ever get for them, anyway. Which is still pretty freakin’ far from normal. The problem is, Dean used to  _like_  it that way. He used to feel superior to all those ordinary kids in their boring, ordinary lives; worrying about school and homework and softball practice and whatever other silly, simple problems normal people have. Dean and Dad and Sam, they were  _better_  than people like that, because they knew the truth. Because they were heroes. The opposite of ordinary is extraordinary, and Dean liked that he was the second one. But now, he finds himself wishing they had been normal, that they’d just been a regular family on a regular street in Lawrence with regular jobs and going to school and everything, because then this probably wouldn’t have happened in the first place. Dean can still see the lingering pain and fear in his brother’s eyes – knows that the same emotions are probably constantly reflected in his own – but there’s also a fierce determination there and Dean isn’t exactly sure what that’s about.  
  
What hurts the most is the sadness in those hazel-green depths. Sam is still taking Dean’s decision as rejection, as a sign that Dean doesn’t want him. He couldn’t be further from the truth but Dean is determined himself; adamant about what he’d said. It was for the best. No matter how much he wants Sam, no matter how he can’t get Sam out of his mind – can’t forget the way Sam’s lips felt against his own, how his body writhed and arched so beautifully beneath Dean’s – he just can’t get over the fact that it was  _Sam_ ; his precious little brother that he’d sworn to take care of and protect. And protecting Sam sure as shit doesn’t include Dean giving in to his own sick desires. He’d completely ruin whatever chance of a happy life Sam has left, and Dean can’t do that to him.  
  
He tries to get things back to the way they were  _before_ ; before Sam ran away, hell, before that even, back to the way they were a few years ago. Brothers and best friends. Sam seems wary at first – Dean can’t exactly blame him, things have been strained for a while – and there’s still that lost, hopeless, helpless look in his eyes that breaks Dean’s heart and makes him want to wrap his brother in his arms and take that look away, but he seems to try as well. It’s especially bad after Dean goes out at night, sneaking back into the house like a kid breaking curfew in an attempt to avoid Sam and that hurt look. But even with the look, and the fact that all the booze and meaningless sex in the world doesn’t help any more than it ever did, it doesn’t stop Dean from doing it. He convinces himself that if he tries hard enough, buries himself in enough alcohol and strange women, he'll get over this. That it'll get better. He thinks maybe if he just tells himself that enough, sooner or later he may actually start to believe it.  
  
Dad’s gone for longer than he usually is this time, which really doesn’t help matters. Usually Dean enjoys getting time alone with his brother without Dad around pissing Sam off and making everything about hunting, but this time Dean finds himself longing for the presence of another person just to cut the tension. Dad swoops back in to pick them up after about three weeks of awkward silences and forced attempts at normal, moving them on to the next town, the next hunt. He’d gotten word of a possible werewolf or skinwalker killing hikers in the woods near a city in Michigan called Alpena. Dean and Sam followed in the Impala; Sam sullen and moody the whole time in the passenger’s seat, although that’s nothing new when they’re heading into a hunt. Dean stops trying to talk to Sam somewhere just past the Georgia state line and it's by far the most uncomfortable trip that Dean's ever made in his entire life.  
  
Dean pulls up behind Dad's truck just on the outskirts of the forest but far enough off the beaten path to not be seen easily. Dean hands Sam a gun and tells him to lock the doors and not get out, no matter what. Sam’s response is an eye roll and a petulant sigh, obviously pissed about being left behind again, or maybe just pissed about being there in the first place, but there's no way after what happened last time Dean is going to let Sam take part in this hunt. So he gives Sam a hard look to let his brother know he isn’t kidding around, and then slams the door just a little harder than he should have before he takes off after his father.  
  
They search for hours and don’t find a damn thing, and Dean officially hates the woods almost as much as he hates Florida. If he gets  _one_  more mosquito bite, he’s gonna start shooting the little fuckers. Eventually, though, even Dad seems to get tired of traipsing around and not actually finding anything, and he says, “Let’s call it. We’ll head back out tomorrow,” over his shoulder as they make their way back to the cars.  
   
===  
  
Sam sighs as he settles back against the seat, the pistol Dean gave him lying cold and unfriendly on the bench beside him. The last thing he wants is to sit here in the dark and wait who knows how long for his dad and brother to find and kill whatever it is they’re looking for. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t go along on hunts at all, but he’d much rather be out there with them searching for the thing than left sitting in the car to wait like a little kid. Sometimes it takes them  _hours_  to finish up, and Dad wouldn’t even let Dean leave the keys behind in case Sam decided to steal the Impala and take off – which isn’t altogether outlandish as far as concerns go, even though Sam would have to be pretty far gone to consider stealing Dean’s baby because Dean would murder him if he did – so Sam doesn’t even have music to take his mind off the numbing boredom. Not that Dean’s taste in music is any good anyway.  
  
Things are still so tense and awkward between him and Dean, and it’s really starting to get to Sam. He’d promised himself that he’d get over everything he knows he shouldn’t feel, that he’d be fine going back to being just brothers, but that’s proving to be a lot harder than he thought. Dean is still  _there_ , all the time, in Sam’s space and in his head and, unfortunately, in his heart. He still has to listen to Dean’s gravelly voice when he knows what it sounds like moaning Sam’s name, he still has to see those incredibly green eyes and that big, bright smile that lights up his whole face and the room. It makes Sam ache deep in his chest to remember what it was like to have Dean’s hands and lips on him and to know that it’s something he’ll never have again. And every time Dean sneaks back in late at night when he thinks Sam’s sleeping, smelling like perfume and smoke and sex, another little part of Sam’s heart breaks.  
  
He wants to scream. He wants to fight back, to tell Dean how stupid he’s being; wants to beg Dean to reconsider, plead with him to give them a chance. But he won’t. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be that weak, that pathetic again, even for Dean. Sam is a lot of things but he isn’t  _that_  pitiful. If Dean doesn’t want him, Sam’s not going to set himself up just to be torn down again. He couldn’t handle it twice. He’ll just have to go back to his plan from before all of this happened – to bide his time and put up with the lifestyle Dad forces on them until he graduates and then maybe he can get out, get away. He has good grades, despite being more transient than a train-jumping hobo. Sam knows if he tries, he can probably get a scholarship to somewhere far enough away that Dean won’t follow him. He doesn’t want to be away from Dean, he wants his brother back the way they used to be before, but it doesn’t seem like that’s in the cards anymore so Sam’s only way out is to leave.  
  
A sudden shout pulls him abruptly out of his thoughts, tearing through the thick silence and making the hairs on Sam’s arms stand on end. He whips his head around automatically, trying to locate the sound even as his heart beats into his throat. Frowning, Sam rolls down the window a little, stuck halfway between hoping to hear it again and hoping to  _never_  hear anything like that again. The woods are quiet for a long few moments except for crickets and the occasional owl, but then he hears it a second time and realizes with a sickening twist in his stomach that it sounds an awful lot like his brother yelling Sam’s name.  
  
Not even stopping to think about it, Sam bolts from the car, pistol left sitting on the seat, and dashes at a full sprint into the woods. He follows the horrible sounds, calling Dean’s name frantically as he runs. His head is spinning and his heart is going so fast it almost hurts, blood and fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins and spurring him on even as the tiny part of his brain that’s still rational hopes Dean won't be mad at him for not listening when he told Sam to stay in the car. He ignores that part, though, in his mad rush to get to his brother.  
  
He hears it before he sees it – a strange wooshing noise kind of like wind through the trees but louder. Whatever it is moves  _fast_ ; it circles around him so quickly Sam only sees shadows and something shiny glinting in the moonlight for what can’t be more than half a second before it’s gone. He doesn’t have a ton of experience with werewolves or skinwalkers but he doesn’t think they can run like that. For just a moment, Sam thinks maybe the thing didn’t see him, that maybe he can get back to the car if he goes quickly enough. But then the space around him goes eerily quiet,  _too_  quiet, and then out of nowhere something big and solid and sharp swings in front of him and connects with his forehead, slicing it open and Sam cries out in pain as warm blood trickles down into his eyes. He catches just a glimpse of it before it grabs him – it’s enormous and ugly and mangled and the most horrifying thing Sam’s ever seen – and then it wraps a huge, clawed hand around his ankle and starts dragging him away faster than a speeding car.  
  
Sam’s too terrified to even scream, but then the back of his head thunks hard against a rock and everything goes black.  
   
===  
  
The closer Dean gets to the car, the more his stomach ties itself in knots. He doesn’t really know why, he just has a feeling deep inside that something isn’t right, and his gut feeling isn’t usually wrong. He takes off at a slow jog, full-out running when he breaks the treeline and doesn’t see Sam’s silhouette in the car right away like he’s supposed to. Skidding to a stop at the door, he pulls it open, heart beating triple-time when he sees the gun abandoned on the seat. He’s barely aware of Dad coming up behind him, barely hears his father’s muttered curse. All he can think about, all that matters, is that Sammy’s gone. Again.  
  
“Damnit,” Dad swears. “You don’t think he ran off again, do ya?”  
  
Dean’s instinct is to say no, to defend his brother. But he stops short of saying the words because honestly, he’s not sure at this point. He never thought that Sam would’ve run off the first time, and with how strained things have been and how upset Sam obviously is, it’s hard to say what he would or wouldn’t do anymore.  
  
“I don’t know,” he admits softly, hating himself even more for it, for not being there  _again_ , for letting Sam down to begin with, for not knowing his brother well enough anymore to say for certain that he hasn’t left again.  
  
A loud shout fills the air for just a second, breaking the tense silence that follows Dean’s admission. Dean and Dad both look back toward the woods at the sound and a cold, dreadful feeling settles around Dean’s heart. He can’t be sure, but he thinks that sounded a little too much like Sam. Without a word, Dean heads back into the woods, following a path of broken twigs and trampled bushes, then – much to his own horror – a sparse trail of blood. He knows without looking that Dad is behind him, hears the heavy footfalls, but there’s just a constant mantra of  _find Sammy_  playing over and over in his head and he can’t concentrate on anything else. Following the path a ways into the woods, eventually Dean stumbles onto a mine shaft, old and decrepit and unused for decades by the look of it. The blood trail stops abruptly at the entrance and Dean barrels inside, once again not stopping to think about it first, half-cocked and scared out of his fucking mind.  
  
“Dean,” Dad hisses from somewhere behind him but Dean doesn’t pay any attention, just pulls his flashlight out of his pocket and heads deeper into the tunnel. With each step, Dean’s heart sinks even more. He’s not sure how he knows, but he just does, that’s Sam’s in here someplace. Turning another corner, he comes to an abrupt halt, heart pounding jack-rabbit fast against his ribcage, bile burning the back of his throat.  
  
Sam’s strung up by his wrists, tied to the rafters above his head, the tips of his tennis shoes barely dragging on the dirt floor. There’s blood streaming from a cut along the center of his forehead, only inches away from where the last one isn’t quite healed; his clothes are ripped and dirty, and there are bruises all along his face and arms. And he’s perfectly still. Dean rushes forward and lifts up a shaky hand to feel frantically for a pulse. At the feeling of his brother’s heartbeat under his fingertips, Dean lets out the breath he’d been holding.  
  
“Sammy,” he whispers hoarsely.  
  
Sam’s head jerks up a little, eyes wide and a little unfocused at first until his gaze lands on Dean. “D?” he asks, soft and uncertain, and Dean’s heart aches at the sound of the nickname Sam hasn’t used since he was six years old.  
  
“Yeah, ‘s me, little brother,” Dean rasps, pulling a switchblade out of his pocket and reaching up to cut Sam down. Sam sighs softly, exhaustedly, and falls into Dean’s arms once he’s cut free. Dean takes his weight, turning back toward the way he just came.  
  
Dad comes up beside him, eyes dark and intense. “Get your brother outside as fast as you can.”  
  
Amazingly enough, even though he was only four at the time, Dean actually remembers the first time he’d heard that order and a chill runs through his body. “Yes, Sir,” he answers automatically, knowing without asking that Dad’s going to stay behind to finish the hunt – or at least try to.  
  
Sam’s mostly quiet on the way back to the car, leaning heavily against Dean’s side, an occasional grunt or hiss escaping if Dean jostles him around too much. Once in the car, Sam curls up against the door, Dean’s jacket used as a pillow, as Dean drives them to the closest motel. He’s tempted to take Sam straight to a hospital but the newest cards aren’t in and he knows that Sam probably wouldn’t want to go anyway. So he’ll just check them in somewhere and assess the severity of Sam’s wounds and make the decision from there.  
  
He ends up practically having to carry Sam into the room once he gets checked in; Sam a mostly dead weight in his arms and Dean doesn’t want to think too hard about that. It’s harder than it used to be, carrying Sam, and it’s just another stark reminder of the fact that his little brother is growing up, that he isn’t so little anymore. He’s all long, coltish limbs just starting to fill out with a hint of the muscle that he’ll grow into eventually. It’s something Dean spends more time than he’d like to admit thinking about, and he’s sort of disgusted with himself that  _that’s_  what comes up in his brain at a time like this. Maybe he’s more far gone than he realizes.  
  
Dean gently sets Sam down onto the foot of the bed furthest from the door, amazingly enough Sam’s able to hold himself up so Dean grabs what he needs from his bag in the car. He kneels between Sam’s spread legs and cleans up the cut that runs from his hairline down to his eyebrow. It’s not too deep, but once the blood’s cleaned away, Dean decides it probably needs to be sutured. He stitches Sam up as quickly and gently as he can and Sam takes it like a champ, only the occasional tiny whimper of pain falling from his lips. Dean puts a butterfly bandage over it after to keep it closed, and then tapes a square of gauze over it. The scrapes and bruises along Sam’s arms and face aren’t that bad either, but there’s nothing he can do for those other than clean them up. He has the most intense urge to kiss each one better like he would have if Sam was younger, but he doesn’t.  
  
  
“M’sorry,” Sam mutters softly, his head falling forward when Dean lets go of his cheeks.  
  
Dean doesn’t want to get into this now. His heart is still pounding too hard against his ribs and the adrenaline is finally wearing off and it’s leaving him tired. And Sam’s beat to shit. So it’s definitely not the time to get into anything. Granted, once he’s sure Sam’s really okay and it doesn’t feel like he’s going to collapse himself any moment, he’ll rip Sam a new one for ignoring him and almost getting himself killed.  
   
“Shh,” he soothes softly. “Don’t worry ‘bout that, Sammy.”  
  
Sam’s head is still hanging down, his chin almost touching his chest, and when he speaks, Dean has to lean in closer to hear him. “Thought you were hurt. Thought I heard you scream. Had to get to you.”  
  
Truthfully, Dean hadn’t even thought of what could have possibly happened that forced Sam out of the car, unarmed and into an unknown situation. The realization that it was because Sam was trying to protect  _him_ , that Sam thought Dean needed him, warms his heart at the same time as it breaks it a little more.  
   
“Shh,” he repeats. “C’mon, you need to rest. We’ll talk about it in the mornin’, ‘kay?”  
  
Sam nods and lets Dean strip off his bloody, ruined clothes and tuck him into bed like he hasn’t done since before Sam hit double digits. And then Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, staring at his little brother’s face for hours, not daring to sleep in case Sam needs anything. The problem is, it gives Dean way too much time to think.  
  
He could have lost Sam, again, tonight. The feeling settles over his whole body like a cold winter wind, chilling his bones and freezing his insides. The mere thought has him on the edge of panic, breaths coming so fast he’s almost hyperventilating. Reminding himself that Sam’s okay, that he’s safe and sound not three feet away doesn’t do anything to calm that bone-deep fear. It could have so easily gone the other way. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, a few errant drops breaking free to trace down his cheeks. There would be  _nothing_  in a world without Sam in it. Sam’s smile and Sam’s infectious laughter are Dean’s reasons for breathing sometimes. He’s full of sweetness and light and joy and he makes Dean  _happy_ , happier than anything else ever could. The truth is, he loves Sam, as his little brother and as his best friend and just maybe as everything else too, and Dean doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do about it anymore.  
   
===  
  
Sam jerks awake, his whole body protesting the move when he sits straight up in the middle of the bed. The room is almost pitch-dark, just a thin strip of bluish moonlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains. He’s breathing harshly, his chest heaving, and he struggles to make his eyes adjust to the lack of light. He knows that it was just a nightmare but it was too close to the truth and it’s left him shaking and a little terrified, no matter how much he hates to admit it.  
  
  
“Sam?”  
  
The bed next to his hip dips when Dean lies down, one hand curled around Sam’s neck, the other pushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Sam kind of collapses forward, his face pressed against the curve of his brother’s neck, as he curls up as best as he can against Dean’s chest. Hot tears fall down his cheeks and as much as he hates himself for it, he can’t stop them.  
  
Dean sighs softly and wraps both arms around him, one hand smoothing up and down his back. “You okay, kiddo?” Dean asks softly.  
  
Sam shakes his head, not bothering to move away from where he’s hiding his face. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t ask, he’s all too familiar with Sam’s nightmares and how they leave him unsettled and afraid and kind of clingy. Sam hasn’t had one this bad in a long time, years even, but Dean is still the only one who knows how to fix it. Without a word, Dean twists and shoves them around, curling around Sam from behind, his arm tight and warm and protective around Sam’s waist, the other shoved under Sam’s neck, his hand pressed against Sam’s heart.  
  
“I was so scared,” Sam whispers pathetically. “Thought that thing was gonna kill me.”  
  
“I know,” Dean murmurs back. “It’s okay, Sammy. M’right here.”  
  
The lingering images from the nightmare don’t fade but it’s easier to get back to sleep, just like it always is when he’s wrapped up warm and safe in his brother’s arms.  
   
===  
  
The next time Sam wakes up, it’s to the sensation of lips pressed against the back of his neck – soft, plump and wet, almost ticklish. For a moment, he thinks that he’s still asleep and having yet another dream about all those amazing things that he can’t have, but the sensation is too real and he can hear Dean’s voice, just barely whispering, “Almost lost you again.”  
  
Sam frowns, finally blinking his eyes open, staring unseeing at the wall in front of him for a moment. He’s barely breathing, afraid to move or speak, and he is so damn confused. Last night may be a little hazy, and he knows that Dean was upset, worried, but this isn’t the first time something like this has happened and he’s never acted this way before. His brother’s arm around his waist tightens a bit, Dean’s broad palm shoved between his hip and the mattress, strong fingers curled around the muscle, and that’s just ... unfair. And too much for Sam to deal with. He’s trying to  _get over_ Dean and this really isn’t helping. Not to mention the fact that his hormonal, teenage body doesn’t know that it shouldn’t be responding right now and if this goes on much longer, things are going to get really awkward, really quick. Sam pulls away from Dean – or tries to anyway – grunting softly when Dean’s arms just pull him back.  
   
“Shh,” Dean breathes against the soft, sensitive skin behind his ear.  
  
Sam’s whole body shudders involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Inhaling deeply, Sam squirms and tugs and pulls until he manages to worm his way out of his brother’s hold, barely daring to glance up at him through his lashes and the fringe of his bangs. If he wasn’t confused and turned on and so angry he can’t think, he’d laugh his ass off at the confused, almost hurt look on Dean’s face.  
  
Dean opens his lips, no doubt to say something that Sam doesn’t want to hear, and Sam can’t deal with this right at the moment. He practically runs to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He leans heavily against the wooden door, trying to calm his frantically pounding heart. He takes a couple deep breaths and then he goes over to the sink and splashes some water onto his face, but it doesn’t help. The image of that  _thing’s_  horrible face is still so vivid in Sam’s mind, he can still see it just as clear as if he were looking right at it again. There are parts of the whole ordeal that are fuzzy from the concussion Sam’s pretty sure he has, again, but other things stuck with him and Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever forget them. The rotted smell of its breath, its massive size and terrible claws, the way it picked him up like he was nothing and carried him off. The feeling of being almost positive he’s about to die in a way more horrifying than most people could dream up in their worst nightmare.  
  
And after all that, after everything Sam’s been through in the last twenty-four hours, he can’t deal with whatever cruel game Dean’s decided this is a good time to play. Dean  _knows_  how Sam feels about him. He should have known exactly what being that close would do to Sam, and he should have cared enough about how miserable Sam’s been for the last few months to at least not make things worse. Sam doesn’t know what’s gotten into his brother, but he never thought Dean would be outright  _mean_  like that. At least not to Sam.  
  
Right on cue, there’s a gentle knock at the door, which Sam ignores until it happens again and he hears Dean’s soft voice saying, “Sam.”  
  
“Go away,” he grits out, his own voice rough and hoarse and so pathetic sounding he’d laugh if he wasn’t on the verge of tears.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Dean says. There’s a small, muffled thud, like maybe Dean’s leaning against the door. “I shouldn’t’ve … I’m just sorry, okay? Please come out.”  
  
“I said go away,” Sam repeats, even though he knows it’s too much to hope that Dean might actually listen. He closes his eyes against the burn of tears anyway, though, and prays Dean will.  
  
“Not happening.” Dean’s voice is louder now, harsher too, like he’s done asking nicely. It’s the same tone their Dad uses when he’s no longer just  _asking_  Sam to do something, and it drives Sam up the wall. “You’re hurt, alright? I let you sleep before ‘cause you looked like you needed it, but I gotta make sure you’re okay. Dad’ll kill me if he finds out I only checked you over once, now c’mon.”  
  
It’s right there on the tip of Sam’s tongue to argue, but unfortunately Dean’s right. And Sam thinks he probably has at least a bit of a concussion, or maybe he just hasn’t completely recovered from the last one, and it would be irresponsible to not let Dean make sure. So he opens the door and lets Dean come in. He sits down on the closed toilet seat and tries not to roll his eyes too many times as Dean fusses over him, checking his pulse and feeling his skull for bumps and shining a flashlight in his eyes to test his pupils. When Dean’s done, Sam gets up immediately and pushes past him, ignoring him again when Dean calls after him.  
  
“Look, I said I’m sorry!” Dean says loudly, following Sam back into the main room.  
  
Sam glares at him over his shoulder. “Oh yeah? For what?”  
  
Dean frowns and gives Sam a look that says he should know exactly  _what_ , and of course Sam knows, but he still wants Dean to say it.  
  
“You’re such a jerk,” Sam mutters. “This was supposed to be over! You said you didn’t want it, you said we couldn’t! And now, what, now you’ve just changed your mind?”  
  
Sam meant the words to be sarcastic, to be a derisive restatement of how awful it is for Dean to take the idea of  _them_  off the table and then keep dangling it in front of Sam’s nose anyway, so he’s shocked right down to his core when Dean says, “Maybe I have!”  
  
“You …” Sam gapes at him. “ _What_?”  
  
He doesn’t believe it. It’s some kind of joke, a prank Dean’s pulling on him because for some reason he thinks it’s funny to get Sam’s hopes up just to cut them down again. But Sam doesn’t get to find out, because before Dean can answer, the door swings open and Dad barrels in, arms flapping and expression frenzied.  
  
“C’mon, we gotta go,” he says briskly.  
  
Neither Sam or Dean respond; for a moment Sam, at least, is too transfixed by Dean and what he just said to process the fact that their Dad is back telling them they have to leave again. And Dean just stares at Sam, his green eyes bright and shiny and full of what looks halfway between uncertainty and fear.  
  
“Boys!” Dad shouts, and Dean jumps and finally looks over at him.  
  
“I – sorry, what?”  
  
“I said we have to go! Get your asses in gear, we gotta follow this thing before it gets too far ahead of us!”  
  
“Follow what? The – you let it get away?” Dean cries incredulously, the words obviously slipping out of his mouth before he’s realized what he said, because the look on Dad’s face is thunderous and Dean actually cowers a little.  
  
“I didn’t  _let it_ do anything,” Dad says in short, clipped tones that have even the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck standing on end. “The thing was ten feet tall and three times as fast as any man, it got past me. But it doesn’t have any bodies left so it’ll need to kill again, and soon. We gotta track it before it hurts more people.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Dean says quickly. “Sorry, Sir. C’mon Sammy, let’s move.”  
  
Sam’s still slightly shell-shocked by the whole thing, but he doesn’t have the energy left to think too hard or question anything that’s going on after everything else that happened tonight, so he just grabs his hoodie off the table and follows his dad and brother out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

It is really not a surprise to Dean that the tension in the Impala is worse than before after what he said to Sam in their room. Honestly, he hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that, but as so often happens when he’s dealing with his brother, Dean acted before he thought. Sam does that to him sometimes, he makes Dean lose all sense of rationality and himself. The thing is, he doesn’t blame Sam for being upset and skeptical. And even though he meant what he said – he _had_ changed his mind about them, or was pretty sure he had although now he isn’t sure again – he hadn’t thought about how Sam would react. He hadn’t put too much thought into how to go about any of it, and clearly he should have.   
  
Dean chances a glance over at Sam. He’s again not surprised to find his brother just staring blankly out the window, watching as the woods around them get thicker and denser the further north they go. He can just barely make out Sam’s reflection in the glass, sighing softly at the crease between Sam’s eyebrows and the downward tilt of his lips. Sam’s obviously confused and angry and frustrated – and, if Dean’s not mistaken, and he rarely is when it comes to Sam, a little hurt – and Dean knows it’s entirely his fault but he has no idea how to fix it.  
  
They end up driving almost two hours deeper into the forest, probably damn-near all the way to Canada, before Dad stops again. Dean’s not sure how the hell Dad’s tracking this thing, especially if he doesn’t know what it is they’re following, but Dean won’t question it. The man’s a fucking genius when it comes to this stuff. Dean would easily be the second best hunter in the world if he was ever half as good as John Winchester is. Eventually, the big black truck pulls over to the side of the road and Dean pulls the Impala in behind it, and Dad gets out and walks over towards them. Dad’s expression is concerned when he gets to the driver’s side, leaning down to talk to the both of them even though Dean knows that Sam doesn’t really give a shit.  
  
“I talked to Caleb,” Dad starts, tone gruff. “He said it sounds like a Wendigo.”  
  
“What is that?” Dean asks.  
  
“Kind of like a demon, from Native American folklore. Details aren’t important. What is, is that they’re tough sons’a bitches. He’s meeting me about an hour north of here.” He stops, his attention solely on Dean now. “Take your brother and find a room somewhere close, make sure he’s okay.”   
  
Despite the gruff, no-nonsense tone, Dean can hear the underlying concern and worry. “Yes, Sir,” he answers automatically. While he’s grateful that he can get Sam away from this hunt and relieved that he gets to stay with Sam instead of having to go with Dad, he can’t help but worry about what’s going to happen once they find a room and are stuck together without any distractions.  
  
“Not sure how long this one’s gonna take. I’ll call when I’m done,” Dad says, before turning around and heading back to his truck. Dean sits and watches until he can no longer see the tail lights, at a complete loss for the first time when faced with having to take care of Sam. Usually, he knows exactly what to do, but this time he has no idea.   
  
Eventually, Dean shakes himself out of his own thoughts and heads toward the closest town. He finds a motel to hole up in until Dad’s done. They’re about halfway between where they parted ways with their dad and where Caleb is supposed to be meeting him, so Dean figures it’s good enough. Sam’s still unusually quiet even after Dean checks them in and they haul their stuff inside and it’s really starting to get to Dean. He’s grown accustomed to Sam’s angsty, emo silences over the last few months but this is different. This time, he _knows_ why Sam’s acting this way, and it isn’t just because being a teenager means being constantly mad at the world for no reason. This time, Sam has a really good reason to be so upset, and the reason is Dean.  
  
Dean’s always hated when Sam outright ignores him like he’s doing now – leaning back against the headboard of the bed furthest from the door, his long legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, forehead resting on one bony kneecap. He’s curled himself into as small of a presence as he physically can and Dean hates that he’s the reason for it, hates even more that he can’t make it better.  
  
“Sammy,” he says softly, not sure what he plans to say after his brother’s name, just knows that he needs to say _something_. And his brother’s name sometimes says it all anyway.  
  
“Don’t,” Sam whispers, tone miserable and soft and it makes Dean freaking ache. He wants to take that look off of Sam’s face, that tone out of his voice; wants more than anything to make Sam happy again.  
  
Licking his lips, Dean studies his brother for a few more moments before moving toward Sam’s bed, although he doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he gets there. Sam looks up at him, eyes a little wide and wet; he’s not crying but it’s there just below the surface.   
  
“Please, Dean,” he says. The even, flat tone doesn’t match what’s in his eyes. “Just leave me alone.”  
  
“I can’t,” Dean says honestly. “Not when you look like that. I’m supposed to take care’a you, remember?”  
  
Sam just shakes his head a little, his expression lost and confused and so hurt it’s painful to look at. “Why are you doing this?” he asks hoarsely.  
  
“Doing what?”  
  
“You said no, you said you didn’t want this. Me. And now you’re … what, just rubbing it in? Do you think this is funny?”  
  
“God,” Dean breathes. He sits down on the bed and reaches out, touching the side of Sam’s leg. Sam flinches a little and that hurts more than Dean would care to admit, but he doesn’t move his hand away. “No. That’s not at _all_ what … Sammy, I … I made a mistake.”  
  
“I don’t know what that means,” Sam barely whispers.  
  
“It means …” Dean sighs again and rubs the back of his other hand over his mouth out of habit. That familiar, uncomfortable feeling is tightening his airway, but he fights through it. “This is hard for me, okay? I’ve felt … like this, for a really long time, but I just pushed it away and it was easy enough to do that until you felt it too, and then I just … I couldn’t, y’know? I couldn’t hold back, but I _should_ have. I shouldn’t have let myself give in. And then I hated myself for it, and all I ended up doing was hurting you even more.”  
  
Dean’s aware that most of what he’s saying makes no sense, but that’s how it is in his head too – it’s all so muddled and jumbled up that he doesn’t even know how he feels anymore. He just knows the way it was when he was with Sam, and he knows that it’s never been that good with anyone else. He’s starting to believe it never will be, and maybe that’s just enough to make him take this chance.  
  
“You were being serious, before? When you said you’d changed your mind?” A small frown creases Sam’s forehead like he’s really surprised about it.  
  
“You thought I was joking?” Dean asks incredulously, swallowing around a lump in his throat when Sam nods. “Shit. No, I … I wasn’t. Wouldn’t do that. Not about this.”  
  
“Why? What’s different now?”  
  
“I almost lost you. Couldn’t’ve … what if I’d gotten there too late, huh? What the hell would I have done without you?” Dean’s getting upset again just thinking about it.  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything in response. He just continues to look heartbroken and Dean doesn’t know what to do about it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again. He feels like he could say it a million times and it would never come close to making up for everything he’s done. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”  
  
“I know why you did,” Sam mumbles, dropping his gaze down to his own hands. “I was stupid, I thought … well. It doesn’t matter what I thought. The point is, you were right. I think we’re just messed up ‘cause we’ve never had anyone but each other. Most people don’t live the way we do, we just got confused. It’s not like we could actually have this.”  
  
Dean takes a deep breath and presses his lips together. “Why?”  
  
“You know why. We’re brothers, it … it isn’t right.”  
  
“Yeah, I know that. I mean that’s why I fought it for so long! But it … it didn’t work, Sammy. I tried to ignore it, I tried to drink it away and sleep with other people so I could forget about you, but I _can’t_. The only thing any of that did is remind me how much I … that you mean everything to me. That I don’t _want_ to ignore this. I know it’s wrong, I know all that, but I can’t … I don’t know what else to do. You and me, it just … it feels right. Even if it isn’t.”  
  
Sam shakes his head, tears finally spilling over the wet rims of his eyes and down his cheeks. “We can’t,” he whispers miserably. “If Dad ever found out, he’d kill us both. And so would anyone else! It’s immoral, it’s illegal, I think! And what if we did? Are we supposed to just spend the rest of our lives sneaking around, hiding it from everyone?”  
  
“What everyone?” Dean reasons. “There is no everyone! Dad’s not even around most of the time anymore, and it’s not like we have any friends! It’s just you and me, like it’s always been. And yeah, we’d have to hide it, but … I don’t know, don’t – don’t you think it’d be worth it?”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer again, he just wipes at the tears on his face, and Dean stands up and turns away because he can’t look at his little brother so upset anymore. After everything, Dean wasn’t really expecting to have to convince Sam to give in to this. It’s making Dean wonder if maybe Sam’s changed his mind too. But then he listens to the pitiful little sobs and clenches his jaw to keep from crying himself, and he knows that isn’t true. He _knows_ Sam, knows that Sam feels the same way Dean does. He’s just scared. And Dean’s terrified, but he’s way past the point of being able to resist this any longer.  
  
“Do you still want me?” he asks, everything he’s ever wanted hanging on Sam’s answer, even if he’s still afraid to want it. Dean’s heart is thudding so hard against his ribcage he almost can’t hear anything else.  
  
“Yes,” Sam breathes, and that’s all Dean needs.  
  
“Good,” he says simply, and then he walks back over to where Sam’s sitting, taking Sam’s tear-stained face in his hands and kissing him.  
  
Sam’s completely still, all the muscles in his body locked tight, his lips a tight line against Dean’s. Finally though, just as Dean’s really starting to freak out, to think that he pushed Sam too far or that by pushing him away so much before that he’s too hurt to give this a shot, Sam moans softly in the back of his throat, his lips parting just slightly beneath Dean’s. Dean moans in response, sliding one hand back into Sam’s hair, using the hold to tilt his head. He gently licks over Sam’s bottom lip, urging his brother to open up more for him. Sam does, tentatively sliding his tongue against Dean’s, slow and wet and perfect.  
  
It’s such a contrast to the first time they did this, when both of them were angry and hurt, the kisses and touches hurried and rough. As good as that was, Dean doesn’t want it to be that way this time. He wants to take his time, to touch and kiss and learn everything about his brother. It seems so strange to think there’s anything about Sam that Dean doesn’t already know, but there is, and Dean can barely wait until that isn’t true anymore.   
  
Eventually the need to breathe forces Dean to pull back, his eyes fluttering open to sweep over Sam’s face. There’s a flush staining his cheeks and his eyes are still shiny-wet, tear tracks streaking down to his jaw, his lips spit-slick and a little puffy already. He’s achingly beautiful and most of the remaining doubts fade away. Dean knows himself well enough to know that he’s always going to worry about this, is always going to be unsure if this is really right, really the best thing for Sam. But he’s so far gone that it just doesn’t matter. Every part of Dean has belonged to Sam since the day he was born. He meant what he said, he’s tried everything he can think of to avoid or bury or forget this but he _can’t_ , so he’s done trying.  
  
Sam inhales deeply, blinking owlishly up at Dean. “Are we really doin’ this?” he asks softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “I … I know it’s not right but as long as we both want it, why shouldn’t we?”  
  
“What if it messes us up even more? What if it doesn’t work out and then we can’t even be brothers anymore?” Sam whispers. “You’re all I’ve got. I don’t wanna lose you.”  
  
All those thoughts had already entered Dean’s mind, were a big part of why he pushed all this away at the beginning. If they cross this line and it somehow blows up in their faces, there’s no way of undoing it. This is a bridge they couldn’t ever uncross. Dean sighs, climbing up on the mattress so that he’s next to Sam, wrapping one arm around his little brother’s shoulder. He can’t help but smile when Sam leans against his side, his face tucked under Dean’s jaw.  
  
“We just … we won’t let that happen,” Dean says softly, turning his head to the side enough to press a kiss to Sam’s forehead. “We’ll be alright, Sammy. I promise.”  
  
Sam nods, shifting closer against Dean’s side. His arm slowly, tentatively, slides across Dean’s stomach, like he wants to get closer but is still afraid to. “And Dad? Are we just gonna hide forever?”  
  
“We just gotta be careful, that’s all m’sayin’. When it’s just me ‘n you, we won’t have to.”  
  
Sam chuckles softly, tightening his arm around Dean.   
  
“What?” Dean asks, smiling in relief that Sam seems to have calmed down and is willing to at least talk about this. Even though Dean’s worried about all the same things Sam is, he can’t deny how good it feels to have Sam’s body pressed up against his.  
  
“Nothin’,” Sam mutters. “Just wondering when you turned into such an optimist.”  
  
Dean snorts, shaking his head but doesn’t say anything. Sam’s right, he never was one to look on the bright side of things – hard to do with the life they’ve had to live – but Sam makes him want to be positive for a change, makes him want to see the good in the world instead of all the bad. They sit like that in silence for a few more moments, Dean so lost in his own thoughts that the sensation of Sam’s lips moving over his neck kind of startles him a bit. Sam pulls away when Dean flinches, eyes wide and unsure.   
  
“Dean?” he whispers.  
  
“Sorry. Just … surprised me.” He stops, searching Sam’s eyes. “You okay?” he asks softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam answers quickly and Dean can tell that he finally is, that the fear or insecurity or whatever it was is gone.  
  
Dean nods, licking his lips before leaning in and pressing another kiss to Sam’s lips. Sam responds instantly this time, automatically opening his lips, practically melting in Dean’s arms. They kiss for what feels like hours, until Dean’s lips are raw and swollen and tingling but it’s so good he doesn’t even care – better than anyone he’s ever kissed. Eventually Sam pulls away with a soft gasp, his head falling back when Dean’s drops down to trail a line of kisses down his jaw to his neck, letting his lips linger on the frantic fluttering of Sam’s pulse beneath the sweat-salty skin.  
  
“Dean,” Sam shifts beneath him, squirming a bit.  
  
Dean pulls back enough so Sam can move, not sure what’s wrong until Sam drops his hand, not-so-subtly adjusting the hard line of his cock where it’s pressing against his zipper. He looks so adorably uncomfortable and embarrassed about it that Dean can’t help but smile, nudging Sam until he’s spread out against the mattress, heavy-lidded, lust-blown eyes blinking slowly up at him. Dean wants to do so much, so many filthy things running through his head, that he’s almost uncomfortably hard. His head swims pleasantly and he wants to just take everything he’s been thinking about for so long, but he’s more than well aware that this is a huge deal, that Sam’s probably a virgin and there’s no way that he’s going to rush into anything. He doesn’t care if it makes him sound like a chick, this is important and he’s going to make sure they take their time; that _he_ takes his time. But still, they’re both hard and blessedly alone and there are more than a few things they can do now.  
  
Dean trails his fingers down Sam’s chest, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. “Lift up for me, baby boy,” he whispers.   
  
Sam’s eyes darken impossibly more, probably at both the fact that Dean wants him shirtless and at the nickname Dean hasn’t used since Sam was nine, when it suddenly stopped feeling right for reasons Dean didn’t understand at the time. He gives Dean a jerky nod, sitting up enough so Dean can pull his shirt up and off. He barely bites back a moan at the sight of Sam’s tan, baby-soft skin stretched over just developing muscle. Unable to resist, he leans forward, dragging his lips and tongue from Sam’s collarbone down to the sparse trail of hair below his belly button.  
  
Sam moans harshly, his fingers curled into useless fists in the comforter, his back arching just a little. Encouraged by his brother’s reaction – and damn curious to see just how responsive and sensitive Sam is – Dean does it again, grinning against the skin when Sam bites off a muttered curse. Dean licks and sucks, nipping gently at Sam’s skin until it’s covered in goosebumps, flicking his tongue over the peaked bud of his nipple before pulling away. Sam’s chest is heaving a bit as he pants softly. Dean grins down at him, letting his fingertips trail down again, ghosting just under the waistband of Sam’s jeans.

 

“Can I?” he asks, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest.

 

Sam licks his lips and Dean can’t remember the last time Sam looked so nervous, something like ‘what if I’m not good enough?’ written all over his face and it makes Dean ache. He tries to smile, tries to convey in his eyes that no matter what Sam looks like he’ll be perfect in Dean’s eyes, and Sam nods just barely. Dean swallows thickly as he pops the button and pulls down the zipper. The first time they did this, they were both so frantic and confused and angry that Dean couldn’t even think about taking the time to get Sam naked. Now, all he wants is to see his beautiful little brother spread out beneath him, hard and bare, feel his skin right against Dean’s. He pulls Sam’s jeans down his legs, tossing them carelessly behind him. The front of Sam’s tight boxer briefs is tented obscenely, not doing a damn thing to conceal the long, hard line of his cock and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. He remembers thinking that Sam felt big when he was rutting down against him, over a month ago now, and he wasn’t wrong.  
  
Sam huffs slightly under the scrutiny and Dean’s eyes snap up to his face. “Damn,” he growls. “Fuckin’ beautiful, Sammy.”  
  
Sam drops his eyes, a blush creeping across his cheeks, as he focuses on Dean’s chest. Dean leans closer, palm cupping Sam’s cheek, urging Sam to look back up at him.   
  
“I mean it,” Dean says softly once Sam’s eyes meet his, sort of hating that Sam doesn’t already know this about himself. “You’re perfect.”   
  
Sam ignores him – of course he does, it’s one of the things Sam does best – and tugs at Dean’s shirt, smiling sheepishly. “You too?” he half-asks, shyly.  
  
Dean had been so focused on getting Sam naked and getting his hands and lips on his brother’s lithe, lean body, he’d kind of forgotten that he’s still completely dressed. He chuckles softly as he pulls away enough to tug his shirt over his head. Sam inhales sharply, his hand raising off the mattress but stopping just short of actually touching. Dean’s never been ashamed of his body, he knows that the hunting and training have been good to him and he knows that he’s hot. And he wants Sam’s hands on him more than he can ever remember wanting anything.  
  
He leans over, lips hovering just over Sam’s ear, lips catching and dragging when he says, “You can touch me, too. Want you to, Sammy.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam moans, soft and breathy and Dean wants to hear Sam say his name like that for the rest of his life.  
  
Sam, curious and stubborn and impetuous little shit that he is, goes straight for the bulge pressing against the front of Dean’s jeans, squeezing gently through the wash-worn, threadbare denim. Dean’s hips jerk forward into Sam’s tentative touch, a groan tearing from his lips. Sam smiles brightly up at him, looking pleased with himself, and does it again; just teasing along Dean’s shaft and up to the tip where Dean can already feel the steady stream of pre-come leaking against his boxer briefs.  
  
Dean growls softly and pulls away, quickly shucking off his jeans. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over the elastic waist of his underwear. Sam reaches out, tucking his thumb just barely under the waistband, nodding slightly when Dean’s eyes lock with his. Dean lets Sam remove his briefs, reaching out to do the same with Sam’s. He can’t help but stare when they’re both naked; Sam’s bare cock flushed and blood-thick, curling up against his abs and leaking steadily. Dean never really thought he’d be into seeing another dude like this, and he still isn’t really, but because it’s Sam, he can’t look away. Sam reaches out, tentatively running the tips of his fingers along the underside of Dean’s cock, his eyes wide and dark, and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Dean lets him touch, lets him explore all he wants even though all _Dean_ wants is to slide between Sam’s legs and fuck him until neither of them can move. Despite what he wants though – they’re so not ready for _that_ – he stays perfectly still until Sam’s fingers curl around his hips, tugging slightly.  
  
“What?” Dean asks softly, leaning in to press a kiss to Sam’s lips, because he _can_ now, and that’s insanely awesome. And because Sam looks so freaking hot spread out beneath him yet still adorable as hell, a crease of concentration between his brows.  
  
“C’mere,” Sam urges, tugging on Dean’s hips again.  
  
Dean shifts until he’s between Sam’s thighs, carefully resting his weight against Sam’s chest. They both moan when their bare lengths rub together, and Dean can’t help grinding down a bit, the almost too-dry slide of friction fucking amazing. Sam arches under him, writhing and moaning, those breathy little whimpers that drove Dean crazy the first time falling from his lips again.   
  
“Dean, please.”  
  
“What? What’d’ya want, Sammy?”  
  
Sam’s brow furrows and he looks confused and Dean realizes in hindsight that they probably should have talked about this before they were naked and grinding against each other.  
  
“What … what d’you mean?” Sam asks softly. “I thought … aren’t we gonna …?” he trails off, flailing his hand around and he looks so young and bashful about it, it strengthens Dean’s resolve that there’s no way they’re going all the way tonight. If his brother can’t even say it, he sure as shit shouldn’t be doing it.  
  
“No,” Dean answers softly. “You … I …” He stops, huffing a breath and trying to think of a way to say this that won’t make it sound like he’s rejecting Sam yet again. “Not now. This is a big deal, Sammy. We’ll get there someday.” _Maybe_ , Dean thinks to himself. Much as he wants to, he’s still a little horrified at the idea of ever hurting Sam the way he thinks that probably does.  
  
Sam frowns a little, biting down on his lip. “You don’t wanna?” he whispers, shifting his hips against Dean’s, their erections rubbing together again. There’s insecurity in Sam’s voice and Dean never wants Sam to sound like that ever again.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean groans. They _really_ should’ve talked about this first. “Yeah, baby boy. God, of course I do. But it’s not … we got time, okay? It’s not all or nothin’. We’ll get there,” he repeats.  
  
Sam parts his lips, no doubt to protest, but Dean dips down and presses a kiss to them instead, smirking to himself when Sam moans and opens up for him to slide his tongue inside. He’s thankful for the fact that Sam’s a horny teenager and easily distracted. Not that Dean’s all that able to concentrate himself, with Sam’s tongue swirling around his and Sam’s cock thick and hot next to his where they’re trapped between their bodies. Dean tries to take his time, kissing down Sam’s neck and chest again, but he’s too turned on, too ecstatic and terrified that this is finally happening, to go as slow and thorough as he’d like to. Sam’s really responsive, too, and that just spurs Dean on. Every bit of smooth, caramel skin his lips touch bunches into goosebumps, and Sam shivers and moans and runs his fingers through Dean’s short hair, and by the time Dean gets level with Sam’s cock, he’s too aroused to even care that this won’t last as long as he’d like it to.  
  
“What’re you gonna … oh,” Sam says breathlessly, when he looks up and sees where Dean is.  
  
Dean smirks a little. “You ever?” he asks, smiling on the inside and the outside a little too when Sam bites his lip and shakes his head. Dean really, _really_ likes the idea of being all of Sam’s firsts.  
  
He’s never done this before either, not from this side of it anyway, so for all he knows he might not be any good at it at all, but because it’s Sam, Dean wants it too much to worry about that. He wants everything too much with Sam; sort of feels like Sam is a drug he’ll never get enough of no matter what they do. He tentatively runs his tongue up the length of the underside, moving it back and forth a little like girls have done to him, and when Sam lets out another soft “oh” and drops his head back onto the pillow, Dean does it again. He flicks his tongue against the swollen head a few times, thoroughly enjoying the noises Sam makes as a result, and then he draws the head into his mouth and sucks on it. It’s strange, at first. It’s heavy and warm on his tongue, and it tastes a little like sweat but not actually _bad_ , but Dean gets used to it pretty quickly and the way Sam gasps and whispers broken syllables that don’t turn all the way into words drives all the uncertainty out of Dean’s mind. He swirls his tongue in a circle around the head a couple times, and then he moves down a little further and starts bobbing his head slowly.  
  
“Oh my _God_ ,” Sam groans, pushing at Dean’s forehead. “You gotta stop, Dean.”  
  
Dean smiles around his mouthful and sucks harder instead. He doesn’t care if this only lasts the few minutes it already has. The first time a girl did this to him, Dean thinks he came in about forty-five seconds. He’d been mortified, then, but now he thinks it’s all kinds of hot that Sam’s close so quickly. He’s going to choose to believe it’s all to do with how awesome he is at sex and not because it’s Sam’s first time. It makes sense, really. Dean’s awesome at everything else he does, it only fits that he’d be awesome at gay sex too.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says again, his voice soft and whimpery, and Dean pulls off his cock with a wet pop just long enough to say, “Do it,” and then he dives back in. He only slides his mouth down and then back up once before Sam gasps loudly and tenses up, and Dean moves away just in time to wrap his hand around the shaft and watch as milky white spurts from the slit and lands, obscene and filthy and _so_ hot, on Sam’s quivering stomach. Sam twitches a little while Dean slowly works his hand up and down his cock, all out moaning when Dean leans back down and licks at the come on his belly. He wasn’t really planning on doing that, but curiosity gets the better of him. It doesn’t taste quite like he was expecting, it’s kind of sweet and salty at the same time, but Dean definitely doesn’t dislike it. And the fact that it’s Sam’s is just dirty and sexy enough that Dean decides he’s gonna try swallowing next time. Which could very possibly be later tonight.  
  
“That … you … _God_ ,” Sam rasps, putting a hand over his eyes like having them open is making him dizzy.  
  
“Call me Dean,” Dean jokes, and he can tell Sam rolls his eyes even though he can’t see it.  
  
He crawls back up the bed and lies down beside Sam, on his side with his head propped up on his hand, and traces the other hand in random patterns over Sam’s chest while his breathing slowly returns to normal. After a while, Sam lifts his hand up and peeks at Dean from under his bangs, the sweetest, shyest little smile on his face that tugs at Dean’s heartstrings. God, he’s _missed_ Sam.  
  
“That was … really good,” he says softly, his cheeks reddening just a little like he’s trying really hard not to be embarrassed but isn’t doing such a fantastic job of it.  
  
Dean leans down and kisses him, slow and lazy and perfect, leaving his forehead resting against Sam’s when their lips break apart.  
  
“You haven’t done that before, right?” Sam asks, quiet hope apparent in the tone of his voice, and Dean shakes his head.  
  
“Never. Wouldn’t, not with anyone but you.”  
  
Sam lets out a tiny sigh of what sounds like relief, and Dean’s glad he’s not the only one feeling possessive. But then his still hard cock accidentally brushes against Sam’s thigh when he shifts a little, and even that small bit of contact has Dean hissing and drives all other thoughts from his mind. He’d almost forgotten how hard he still is, but now that he’s been reminded, he can’t focus on anything else.  
  
“You, um … you want me … to …?” Sam fumbles over the words and gestures vaguely with his hand, and Dean kisses him again.  
  
“Only if you want to,” he tells him, and as much as his dick screams at him for it, he really means that. The last thing he’d ever want to do is push Sammy into something he isn’t ready for.  
  
“I … I probably won’t be any good at it,” Sam says, words just a whisper of breath that Dean feels against his cheek. “But I wanna try.”  
  
In the end, Dean doesn’t last all that much longer than Sam did. Sam’s tentative and unsure at first; when he first gets down to the other end of the bed and comes face to face with Dean’s cock, he looks so nervous and freaked out that Dean wants to pull him back up into his arms and tell him he doesn’t have to do it. But Sam isn’t the most stubborn person Dean knows for nothing, and he licks shyly at the head of Dean’s cock only a few times before he seems to get the hang of it. It’s a little messy and fumbly, it’s one of the more uncoordinated blowjobs Dean’s ever gotten, but it’s also the best one by a long shot. Dean can’t get over how amazing it is that it’s _Sam_ doing this to him, touching him and licking him and making him feel so good he has to clench his fists to keep from bucking up into Sam’s mouth. His little Sammy, the sweet, sensitive, hot-tempered, passionate, wonderful person Dean’s spent his whole life loving, and now he has him in a way he never really knew he wanted so much until he got it.  
  
Sam uses his hand when Dean comes, like he did on Sam, and the orgasm washes over him in warm, intense waves and he lets himself melt into the pleasure. He’s instantly addicted to it, and he knows for sure now that he was right, all those weeks ago, after his weekend with Lisa when he’d thought that, as amazing as that was, it wouldn’t ever be as good with anyone as it could be with Sam. He drags Sam back up the bed when the room stops spinning, sliding his arms around him and smiling when Sam snuggles up close and tucks his head under Dean’s chin again. Right where he belongs.  
  
“So what do we do now?” he asks.  
  
“Hmm. Well, I don’t know about you, but I say we take a nap and then do that again,” Dean answers.  
  
“What if Dad shows up?”  
  
“He doesn’t know where we are, remember? He ditched us before we found this place, he’s gonna haf’ta call if he wants to see us.”  
  
“Oh. I forgot about that.”  
  
“And besides, it could take him and Caleb a while to track that thing down. Looks like it’s just us, kiddo. You’re still recovering, anyway. I think it’d be a good idea if you stay in bed for at least the next twenty-four hours.”  
  
Sam laughs, bright and happy and free, and it’s the most beautiful sound Dean’s ever heard. “If you think that’s best.”  
  
“Absolutely.” Dean buries his nose into Sam’s hair, drawing in a deep breath that smells like fresh air and sweat and Sammy and _home_ , and holds his brother just a little bit tighter.


	8. Chapter 8

_Six months later_  
  
Sam’s not really paying attention as he walks toward the latest by-the-week motel that Dad stashed him in before he took off on yet another hunt. It had taken a while – along with some coaxing from Dean – but eventually Dad stopped being worried that Sam would take off again the minute he was alone. It was good to be trusted again, because Sam was getting really,  _really_  tired of being supervised every minute of the day like a criminal and he’d rather stay behind than go along on the hunt anyway, but it also meant that Dad took Dean with him when he left this time. That was a week and a half ago, and Sam’s going crazy.  
  
It hasn’t been easy. There’s no handbook for what him and Dean are doing and regardless of everything else, Dean is still his brother and they still bicker and fight and get under each other’s skin like brothers do – but Sam’s glad about that in some ways. He loves the new parts of what he has with Dean, but he’d never want Dean to stop being his brother because of it. And eventually they settled into this thing between them and things were actually  _good_. It’s been a long time since Sam could say that about his life; he’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be happy. The only thing they haven’t done is actually have sex. Dean keeps insisting that Sam’s too young, that they have plenty of time to get to that stage of their relationship – Sam gets a funny tingle in his belly every time he thinks of what they have as an honest-to-God relationship. It’s frustrating, though. Sam is beyond ready, but Dean is a stubborn bastard when it comes to some things, especially when he thinks what he’s doing is what’s best for Sam.  
  
Just thinking about his big brother puts a sappy grin on Sam’s face and has him half-hard in his jeans. It’s been a long week and a half and Sam’s fifteen and horny and his right hand just can _not_  compare to someone else’s touch. Especially when that someone else is Dean. He looks up as he gets to the end of the street, heart skipping a beat or two when he sees the Impala parked out front. Running the last few feet, Sam bursts through the front door, smiling brightly as he drops his backpack carelessly on the floor. Dean’s standing there, freshly showered, his hair in messy wet spikes, bare-chested and barefoot, jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips. It’s by far one of the hottest sights Sam’s ever had the privilege of seeing – and after spending the better part of six months getting to see his stupidly gorgeous brother naked,  _a lot_ , that’s saying something.  
  
“Heya, Sammy,” Dean drawls softly, smiling brightly when Sam just continues to stand there staring at him like an idiot. He slowly saunters forward, reaching out to curl one hand around Sam’s hip, tugging him closer. “Didja miss me?”  
  
“I ... shit,” Sam replies unhelpfully, feels a blush creeping across his cheeks when Dean chuckles softly. He frowns, falling forward to bury his face in his brother’s neck. “Shut up,” he mutters.  
  
Dean brings one hand up, carding through the hair on the back of Sam’s head and then tugging on it, urging Sam to look up at him. “Missed you too,” he whispers before slanting his lips against Sam’s.  
  
Sam moans in the back of his throat, shuffling closer to his brother, pressing his now mostly-hard cock against Dean’s hip. Dean moans in response, sliding one hand down between them, palming Sam through his jeans. Sam pulls away, gasping softly, his forehead falling forward to rest against Dean’s collarbone.  
  
“Gonna take this as a ‘yes’ that you missed me?” Dean says, tone rough yet teasing at the same time.  
  
Sam nips at his skin in retaliation. “Jerk,” he murmurs.  
  
“Bitch,” Dean answers softly, nosing through Sam’s hair, nuzzling against his temple. It’s funny, that word should be an insult, but it sounds more like  _I love you_  when Dean says it. “C’mon, baby boy,” he whispers, walking him backward toward the bed and Sam can  _totally_  get on board with where Dean’s heading.  
  
Sam’s brain goes fuzzy with the flurry of hands and lips, fingers tugging impatiently at denim and cotton to get at skin that’s familiar yet still somewhat new and dangerous. Sam’s panting harshly by the time Dean pulls off his briefs and gently pushes him down onto the mattress, following right behind after he shimmies out of his own underwear. They both moan harshly at the first brush of slightly sweat-slick skin against skin, Sam shifting enough to spread his legs wide and Dean squirming and wiggling until he’s between Sam’s thighs and they’re pressed together as close as they possibly can be. Dean pulls away enough to look down at Sam and he can’t help but gasp softly at the look on his brother’s face – the love and devotion and want darkening his green eyes until hardly any color is visible.  
  
“Dean,” Sam breathes, arching up against his brother, his eyes fluttering closed at the almost too-dry slide of friction.  
  
Dean cups his cheek, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. “Sammy, fuck. Missed you. Want you.”  
  
Sam’s eyes snap open, locking instantly with Dean’s. His brother is biting down on his bottom lip, his eyes a little wide too like even  _he_  can’t believe what he just said – or at least the implication of what he said. Sure, he’s said it before, but never like  _that_. There was something different in his voice this time. And Sam wants it so freaking much he can’t see straight.  
  
“Please, Dean?” he whispers.  
  
This is usually the part where Dean says no, that he can’t –  _won’t_  – do that to Sam. That Sam’s too young, or that it’s too big a step to take. And then Sam tries to explain that it’d be something Dean’s  _giving_  him, not something he’s taking away, but so far Dean has still always refused. Sam’s frustrated but he can never bring himself to be mad because he knows Dean’s just looking out for him. But this time, Dean nods and pushes away from Sam enough to reach for his duffel and dig into the pocket on the inside. They keep a bottle of lube in there, for hand-jobs and the – very few – times that Dean has slid a single finger into Sam. He watches wide-eyed as Dean pulls the bottle out and tosses it on the mattress next to Sam’s hip. Then he resettles between Sam’s legs, one hand running through his hair again.  
  
“You sure ‘bout this, Sammy?” he asks softly.  
  
Sam wants to roll his eyes but he refrains; doesn’t think being a brat will get him what he wants. He’s told Dean more than once already, begged even, promising that he’s ready. Instead, he nods and leans up enough to press a kiss to Dean’s lips. “Yeah. I … I love you and I wanna do it.”  
  
Dean still looks uncertain, like he wants it but is afraid to let himself have it, so Sam kisses him again.  
  
“I want you, so much,” Dean whispers. “I just … I don’t wanna hurt you.”  
  
“It hurts for girls a little the first time too, right?” Sam reasons, brushing his fingers over Dean’s cheek. “Never stopped you before.”  
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t feel … like  _this_ , about them.”  
  
He means love. Sam knows he does, even if Dean hasn’t gotten to a point yet where he’s comfortable saying it. “Just go slow. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“You gotta promise me you’ll tell me to stop if it’s too much. Swear it, Sammy.”  
  
“I swear.”  
  
Dean still doesn’t look totally convinced, there’s a crease between his eyebrows that means he’s probably going to worry no matter what Sam says. But it seems like just maybe he’s going to give in this time, and suddenly Sam’s heart is beating so fast it feels like it’ll burst. Dean kisses him, his tongue gliding against Sam’s in deliciously warm, wet sweeps, and Sam hums happily and moves his hands down to cup Dean’s ass, pushing their hips closer together. Dean rocks against him, the dry slide of their erections good enough that Sam could easily come just from this, but he won’t. Not this time.  
  
“C’mon,” he urges, just in case Dean’s stalling or thinking about changing his mind, and Dean rolls off him, sitting up and reaching over to grab the lube.  
  
He flicks the cap open and then he just stares at the bottle in his hands for a moment. Sam pushes himself up to his elbows and frowns at his brother.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Are … um. Are you nervous?” Dean asks.  
  
“A little,” Sam says honestly. “You?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “This is … really big.”  
  
“It’s not  _that_  big,” Sam jokes, nodding down toward Dean’s crotch and waggling his eyebrows so Dean will get the double-entendre.  
  
Dean huffs and smacks Sam’s thigh. “Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.”  
  
Sam laughs, and Dean smiles just a little, even if it looks reluctant. But then he just goes right back to staring at the lube, and Sam sighs and sits all the way up.  
  
“If you really don’t wanna do this, we don’t have to,” Sam tells him gently. “If it’s bothering you this much … I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t.”  
  
“No, it’s … I want it. Don’t get me wrong, I  _really_  do. It’s just …”  
  
“Is it because we’re both guys?”  
  
“A little,” Dean answers quietly. “I’m not grossed out or anything, it’s just … weird. Different, you know?”  
  
Sam doesn’t really know, since he’s never been with a girl anyway, but he gets that being with another guy is probably pretty high on Dean’s list of things he’s not supposed to want, and that Sam does understand. It’s been easier for Sam to accept all this than it has for Dean, partly because it’s all Sam’s ever had but also because Sam doesn’t have Dad screaming in his head about the importance of  _being a real man_  like Dean does. Not that Dad hasn’t tried to drill that through Sam’s skull too, but Sam’s just never cared as much about what Dad thinks. Not like Dean does, anyway. “Bad different or good different?”  
  
“Neither. Just different.”  
  
Sam reaches for him, curling his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck and bringing his forehead to rest against Sam’s. He doesn’t say anything, though, just waits for Dean to continue. Sometimes it’s easier for Dean to talk about things like this if he doesn’t have to look right at Sam while he’s doing it.  
  
“It’s the brother thing, too, I guess. I mean, most of the time, I don’t even think about it. You and me, just feels … you know? But then sometimes it’s like … like I’m taking something from you that I shouldn’t be. Like I’m, I don’t know, robbing you of the chance to ever be normal. And this is … I mean, actual sex. It’s a big deal. It’s not something we could come back from.”  
  
“I know,” Sam says. “I don’t wanna come back from it.”  
  
Dean nods, and Sam really hopes he got through to him this time because he’s running out of ways to convince Dean that he wants this just as much as Dean does. And not just the sex, either. Sometimes Dean still has moments where he worries that them being together isn’t what’s best for Sam. He’s eternally the big brother, and Sam loves him for it but hates it at the same time.  
  
Their foreheads are still pressed together and Sam reaches up, trailing his fingertips down Dean’s freckle-kissed cheek, over his strong jaw, down his neck and under the black leather cord of his amulet, fingers finally stopping to curl around the small brass head. He can see Dean’s eyes flutter closed and lets his own close as well. Their breathing syncs up, sharing the slightly humid air in the miniscule space between their lips and Sam feels all the fear and worry and insecurity fall away. This may not be right to anyone else but he doesn’t care about that; it works for them, so in the end, that’s all that matters.  
  
Eyes still closed, he blindly reaches out and takes the lube from Dean’s fingers, tossing it aside on the mattress. Dean goes to pull away but Sam reaches up with his other hand and grabs the back of Dean’s neck, keeping him right where he is. They’ve always been scarily in tune with each other, closer than two siblings should be, and there have never been any clear lines between them – and all of that was before they started this crazy-intense, scary-beautiful thing between them. Leaning forward just a bit, Sam slides his lips over his brother’s cheek, smiling to himself when Dean jerks a little.  
   
“It’s okay,” Sam whispers against the side of Dean’s lips, tongue darting out to lick at them. “We can just see where it goes, alright?”  
  
Dean nods and wraps one arm around Sam’s waist, gently laying him back against the mattress. Dean searches his eyes for a few long moments, no doubt looking for any fear or nerves or hesitation. Sam lets him look his fill, lets everything he feels for his brother show through, and tugs a bit on the amulet still gently clenched in his palm. They move together at the same time, like they’ve done their whole lives, still new yet somehow not, lips meeting somewhere in the middle and Sam can feel Dean relax into the kiss. It naturally deepens, both moaning softly, tongues twisting together wet and perfect and this,  _this_ , they’re good at, have had plenty of practice over the last six months.  
  
Dean shifts slightly, moving so that he’s between Sam’s legs again, one hand sliding down his thigh, fingers digging into the muscle as Dean continues to kiss him thoroughly. His other hand comes up to tangle in Sam’s hair, using the hold to tilt his head and deepen the kiss even more. Sam’s head is swimming pleasantly and he can’t really breathe but it’s so freaking good that he never wants to stop. Dean grinds down a bit, their bare cocks rubbing together again and Sam pulls away from the addictive slide of Dean’s lips with a gasp, his head pressing back into the pillow, muscles in his neck flexing. He whispers his brother’s name, sighing happily when Dean dips down and trails a fiery line of kisses down his jaw to his neck, nipping gently at Sam’s already pounding pulse.  
  
His hips start rutting down against Sam’s harder, more insistent, and while Sam’s a little disappointed, it still feels amazing and he knows that he can come just from this and it’ll still be awesome, just like everything with Dean is. He tells himself that they will get there eventually; that someday they’ll be able to get past whatever it is that’s making Dean hold back. But to his surprise, Dean shifts, kissing down over his collarbone, stopping briefly to tease at each nipple in turn, then down to his abs; nipping and licking and sucking at the quivering flesh of his stomach, over his hips, the sensitive skin just inside the bone. He stops just before he gets to Sam’s leaking, aching cock, looking up at Sam, and winks before taking Sam between his lips.  
  
Sam moans like he’s dying, his back arching off the mattress, his hips trembling with the want to thrust up into that delicious, wet heat but Dean’s strong, sure hands clamp down on his hips, keeping him pressed against the mattress. Sam can already feel the slow burn of his orgasm pooling low in his stomach – never is able to last long when Dean sucks him like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for the gold. He reaches down, scrambling to try and grab a hold of any part of his brother that he can reach, just barely able to mutter a choked-off, “Dean.”  
  
But then Dean pulls away right before Sam’s about to explode, wiping over his lips with the back of his hand, and Sam’s whole body shudders at being denied the release he needed more than air. Sam tries to reach out for his brother but Dean just shakes his head, crawling back up the bed and lying down on his side tucked up close to Sam, his head propped up on one hand. He grabs the lube and Sam frowns in confusion, looking up at his brother. Dean smiles softly and pushes the sweaty hair off his forehead and then kisses it, holding up the bottle of clear gel for Sam to see and quirking an eyebrow. Sam’s not ashamed to admit that it takes longer than it probably should for what Dean’s silently saying to actually register in his brain. He totally doesn’t think it’s his fault, either. Dean does that to him.  
  
“Really?” he blurts out after a moment, cheeks heating up when Dean chuckles softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answers, tone soft and breathy. “Just … I meant it, Sammy. It gets to be too much, you gotta tell me, ‘kay?”  
  
He says it like a question but Sam knows that it’s really not, there’s no alternative there. It’s not a request, it’s a condition. But still, Sam nods his head. “Okay, I promise, Dean,” he says softly.  
  
Dean nods as well and flicks open the lube, spreading a generous glob of it between his fingers. There are still shadows in his eyes but he doesn’t seem as tense so Sam will take that as a good sign.  
  
Sam gasps softly when Dean reaches down and his lube-slick fingers slide over Sam’s balls, gently rolling and tugging at them before sliding his fingertips over the thin, sensitive skin behind. Dean circles one finger around his rim, just a teasing, light pressure that doesn’t come anywhere close to breaching. They’ve done this much a couple of times already, Dean gently pushing one slick finger into him while he’s sucking Sam off and it’s always been really good. Odd at first, a stretched feeling that Sam wasn’t initially sure whether he liked or not, but he’s kind of starting to crave it, then a full feeling that is just as confusing but still addicting.  
  
After what feels like a small eternity, Dean presses forward slowly. The discomfort is there but it’s not exactly  _painful_ , just a little strange and Sam inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Dean’s watching him intently, Sam can see every flick of his eyes and twitch of muscle in his temple with Dean’s face so close to his. He’s looking for the smallest sign that Sam isn’t enjoying himself, and Sam smiles up at him, reaching one hand down to lightly trail his fingers up the underside of Dean’s still hard cock. Dean moans softly, his eyelashes fluttering a bit and his jaw clenches. It’s slow going but eventually, Dean’s able to push his finger into Sam easily, Sam moaning and writhing, trying to thrust down against Dean’s finger to get more. Dean pours more lube over his fingers when he pulls away, leaning down to press a kiss to Sam’s lips.  
  
“Gonna try another one, okay?” he says softly.  
  
Sam nods and shifts his hips a bit, letting his legs fall open further. He tenses involuntarily when Dean presses forward with two fingers, the burn more pronounced than he’s used to.  
  
Dean frowns, his eyes once again sweeping over Sam’s face. “Sammy?”  
  
Surprisingly, the discomfort doesn’t really last and Sam’s actually growing to like that full feeling. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Feels good, Dean.”  
  
Dean looks skeptical but he keeps going, moving his fingers in and out gently, twisting and spreading them a little. Sam’s just about to tell him to try another one, when on the next thrust, Dean’s fingers slide over a spot inside him that has sparks of pleasure firing through his veins. He cries out, grabbing Dean’s bicep tightly, his mostly hard cock suddenly rock-hard and aching again. Dean looks terrified, eyes wide with panic and Sam feels him shift to move away, which only makes him rub that spot again. Sam yelps again, fingers digging in even harder on Dean’s arm.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean rasps. “What the fuck?”  
  
Sam sucks in a large breath, eyes wide as well when he looks at Dean. “Holy shit,” he gasps. “Do that again.”  
  
Dean still looks kinda freaked out, blinking owlishly. “What? What’d I do?”  
  
Sam’s brain finally comes back online enough to supply the word  _prostate_  and a couple other things he read when he did some research on all this, and he shifts his hips, looking to feel that intense pleasure again. Dean’s obviously still confused but he starts to move his fingers, watching Sam with wide eyes. Sam gasps when he hits it again.  
  
“There, right there,” he moans. “ _Dean_.”  
  
Dean keeps that angle and picks up a steady rhythm, Sam writhing and moaning, thrusting down against Dean’s hand.  
   
“More,” he pants. “C’mon, damnit. More.”  
  
Dean chuckles softly and leans in, kissing him slow and deep and thorough. At first, Sam barely registers the pressure of Dean adding a third finger until he’s in all the way, but when he does, it hurts a little more than he anticipated. He cringes, a hurt noise escaping his lips before he can stop it and Dean freezes.  
  
“Sam?” Dean asks harshly. It’s never good when he’s just  _Sam_  and in  _that_  tone.  
  
“M’okay, Dean,” Sam rushes to reassure, shifting his hips again to test it. He’s not entirely lying, it  _is_  getting better. It’s still kind of uncomfortably full but it’s easing up a bit.  
  
Dean’s jaw clenches a little and he shakes his head. “Sammy,” he warns.  
  
“Seriously, Dean,” Sam says, blinking up at him and trailing his fingers down the side of Dean’s face. “I’m good. Please.”  
  
Dean inhales deeply, searching Sam’s eyes for what feels like forever, until he finally nods. Sam smiles and pulls him down into a kiss, his eyes damn-near rolling back into his head so far it hurts when Dean’s fingers hit that sweet spot again. Sam rips his lips away from Dean’s, moaning loud and long. Dean looks equal parts surprised and smug and a little bit in awe.  
  
“That it?” he asks breathlessly.  
  
“Yes,” Sam hisses, seeing stars and drawing out the ‘s’ when Dean rubs his fingers over that spot again. He’s grinning when Sam’s eyes snap back open. Smug bastard did that on purpose.  
  
After a few more long, torturous moments, Sam can’t take it anymore. He’s so hard he’s dizzy and he just wants Dean inside him  _now_. He pushes weakly at Dean’s shoulder. “Okay, shit. I’m ready. C’mon, Dean. Fuck me.”  
  
Dean growls low in his throat, leaning in and smashing their lips together so hard Sam’s kind of amazed he doesn’t taste blood. He drops his forehead to rest against Sam’s when he pulls away, panting harshly. “Shit, baby boy,” he rasps. “Can’t say shit like that.”  
  
Sam feels smug himself for a moment, the proof that he’s affecting Dean just as much a warm, powerful feeling. “Then do it, and I won’t hav’ta say it again,” Sam teases softly, leaning up to nip at Dean’s spit-slick, kiss-bruised bottom lip.  
  
“Pushy bitch,” Dean mumbles, nuzzling under Sam’s jaw, rubbing his fingers against Sam’s prostate again, lightly, just barely-there.  
  
“Teasing jerk,” Sam gasps, the happy little twinges spreading all the way to his toes.  
  
Dean chuckles again and Sam’s so stupidly glad that they’re able to be this way again, playful and easy banter. That even though he knows Dean’s still concerned about this, he’s willing to give it a try. He feels oddly empty when Dean pulls his fingers away, whimpering softly in the back of his throat before he can stop it. Dean’s eyes go soft and kind of liquid and he leans down again, kissing Sam slow and sweet.  
  
“Shh, s’okay. I got’cha. I‘mma take care’a you,” he whispers. “Just like I always do.”  
  
Dean flails one arm over the side of the bed and Sam watches as he fishes a condom out of his wallet. He bites down on his bottom lip, his brow furrowed. Dean looks down at him, concern darkening his eyes.  
  
“What?”  
  
Inhaling deeply, Sam plucks the condom from between his brother’s fingers, his own fingers gently playing with the crinkly wrapper. “Don’t wanna use one,” Sam mumbles, knows that it comes out like sounding all immaturity and petulant baby brother but he can’t help it.  
  
“Sam,” Dean says sharply.  
  
“Oh, c’mon, Dean. I know you’ve always used one. I’ve never done  _anything_. And we’ve spent most of our lives bleeding all over each other.” He stops, inhaling deeply. “Just wanna feel you. It’s just me and you, right?”  
  
“That’s kinda reckless, don’t you think? Not using one unless we’re totally sure? I’d never forgive myself if I gave you something.” Dean’s frowning, but he still looks like he doesn’t totally believe the words coming out of his own mouth, so Sam pushes.  
  
“I’ve swallowed your come and you’ve swallowed mine,” he points out. “If you were gonna give me something, I’d already have it.”  
  
The muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches from where he’s got his jaw clenched and he’s staring intently at Sam again. Sam forces himself not to squirm under those intense eyes – sometimes looking at Dean is like looking at the sun; beautiful but it’ll burn you if you stare too long. Eventually, Dean shakes his head a bit and huffs out a small snort.  
  
“You’re gonna be the death’a me,” he mutters, lowering himself between Sam’s legs again, blanketing him from shoulder to ankle.  
  
Sam watches, wide-eyed, as Dean pours more lube in his palm and reaches down to slick himself up. His brother’s lust-blown eyes slam closed, a long, drawn-out moan tearing from his bitten-red lips, his head falling forward slightly. Sam can sympathize; he’s strung-out himself and he can’t really believe that Dean’s been able to hold out as long as he has without being touched. Dean inhales deeply and repositions himself between Sam’s legs, one hand clamped down around the base of his cock as he lines himself up. They lock eyes when Dean presses forward, thick head of his stiff flesh breaching Sam’s hole. Even though Sam’s expecting it, it still hurts. His whole body freezes, muscles locking up tight and Dean awkwardly leans down, pushing the hair off Sam’s forehead.  
  
“Easy, baby boy,” he mutters. “Just breathe.” He waits until Sam takes a deep breath, nodding and smiling down at him. “That’s it, Sammy. Relax, let me in.”  
  
Sam tries his best to breathe and unclench, reminding himself how much he wants this and concentrating on the sound of Dean still whispering to him instead of the stretch that’s just a bit too much to be completely comfortable. Whether it’s the low rumble of his brother’s whiskey-rough voice or the soothing words or just the fact that it’s  _Dean_  and he’s been taking care of Sam his whole life, Sam does as he’s told, relaxing, melting into the mattress. Dean slides in the rest of the way one inch at a time, slowly and evenly but not stopping until he’s all the way in and Sam can feel the full swell of Dean’s balls brushing against his ass. For some reason, it hits him then. Dean is  _inside_  him, they’re as intimately connected as is humanly possible.  
  
“Holy fuck,” he breathes, mesmerized, staring up into the eyes that have watched out for him, watched over him, his whole life. It’s kind of overwhelming and much to his embarrassment, he feels his throat thickening with emotion, the sting of tears biting at the corners of his eyes.  
  
Dean smiles unsteadily, running one hand through Sam’s hair, the other clamped down on his hip. “You okay?” he asks hoarsely and Sam doesn’t feel so bad because Dean seems pretty overwhelmed as well.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “M’good.”  
  
Dean nods again and kisses him softly as he slowly draws his hips back, almost all the way out before sliding in again; setting up a slow, steady pace. He pulls all the way out again just for a moment to add another dollop of lube, and then he’s back in and after only a few easy thrusts, the sting starts going away and melts into something else, something that feels better with each passing second. It’s soul-deep and full and indescribable, and Sam honestly doesn’t think that he’s ever felt as close to his brother as he does right now, and given how close they’ve always been, that’s saying something. Sam shifts his hips just a bit, thrusting up to meet his brother’s movements and on the next downstroke, Dean’s cock skates over that sweet spot and Sam’s vision goes fuzzy for a second, crying out his brother’s name. Dean grins down at him, eyes bright and crinkling at the corners.  
  
“Good?” he asks softly.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam grunts. “More, Dean.”  
  
Dean smirks a bit but picks up the pace. It takes a little while but eventually they settle into a rhythm, moving together in a way that feels easy and fluid, and it’s the best thing Sam’s ever felt. He kind of loses track of how much time passes, nothing seems to matter but the pleasure and the way Dean’s staring down at him like he’s everything, but still it seems all too soon when he feels heat pooling low in his stomach, his balls drawing up tight against his body.  
  
“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groans. “So close.”  
  
Sam shivers when Dean echoes the same thought he just had – sometimes it still amazes him, even after almost sixteen years, how in sync he and his brother are.  
   
“Dean,” he moans. “Me too.”  
  
Dean manages to slip one hand between their stomachs, strong, familiar, gun-calloused fingers curling around Sam’s cock, stroking in time with the thrusts of his hips. “Do it, baby boy,” he growls. “Come for me.”  
  
Dean barely finishes saying the words before Sam cries out, his orgasm ripping through him like a tidal wave. He arches off the mattress as much as he can, moaning as Dean works him through it, the miniscule space between them flooded with his warm, sticky release. He’s just with it enough to hear his brother’s bitten-off moan, Dean swearing softly as he slams forward one last time, his hips jerking erratically and Sam feels warmth filling him up from the inside. Somehow through the post-orgasmic haze he realizes belatedly that the feeling is Dean coming  _inside_  him and it makes his spent cock twitch feebly.  
  
Sam’s chest heaves as he breathes, and Dean drops himself down on top of Sam and lies there for just a minute while they both catch their breath. Then he rolls off, pulling himself out of Sam slowly, and even though there’s a few twinges when the head of his cock passes over Sam’s sensitive rim, as soon as Dean’s gone Sam misses the full feeling and wants it back. Then Dean just lies there beside him, staring into Sam’s eyes with an expression on his face that’s full of so many things Sam can’t even begin to decipher them all. He’s sure his own face looks the same way. He’s not really sure what to feel right now, or maybe he’s just feeling too much at once. He sort of wants to laugh and cry all at the same time.  
  
“So. Um. That … was sex,” Sam says, a strange awkward feeling swirling in his stomach that he really doesn’t like. Dean just considers him for a moment, but then he smiles, and then he  _laughs_ , deep and rough and warm like honey, and all Sam’s worries just disappear. He smiles back, lit up on the inside and so happy he almost doesn’t know how to deal with it. He’s not used to feeling this good, but he could definitely  _get_  used to it.  
  
“It was damn  _good_  sex, is what it was.” Dean reaches for Sam, sliding his arms around Sam’s back and Sam shifts in as close as he can and lays his head on Dean’s shoulder. His skin is warm and sticky against Sam’s, and the way he cards through Sam’s hair with one hand and rubs up and down Sam’s back with the other is so perfect, Sam never wants to fall asleep any other way than just like this. He’s comfy and sated and he feels  _loved_ , by the one person he’s always longed to be loved by, and it’s really, really good.  
  
“We should do that, like, every day. Forever.”  
  
Dean laughs again and kisses the top of Sam’s head. “I could so get on board with that plan.”


End file.
